r 


WILLIAM  DUDLEY  PELLEY 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


A 


THE   GREATER  GLORY 


They  came  back  to  town,  his  arm  about  her  shoulders,  hers 
about  his  waist.     FRONTISPIECE.     Page  122. 


By  WILLIAM  DUDLEY  PELLEY 


WITH  FRONTISPIECE  BY 
NORMAN  PRICE 


A.  L.  BURT  COMPANY 
Publishers  New  York 

Published  by  arrangement  with  Little,  Brown  &  Company 


Copyright,  1919, 
BY  LITTLE,  BROWN,  AND  COMPANY. 


All  rights  reserved 

Published,  September,  1919 
Reprinted,  September,  10] 9 
Reprinted,  December,  1919 


10 


^  -ps 

,  >  \    -> 


flBotber 
GRACE  GOODALE   PELLEY 

WHOSE   LIFE   HAS   INCLUDED   MANY  OF   THE 
SITUATIONS   WHICH   FOLLOW 

THIS    BOOK 
IS   AFFECTIONATELY   DEDICATED 


ST.  .TOHKSBFET,  VEBMONT 
APKIL  lOrn,  1919 


S137624  * 


PART  I 


THE  GREATER  GLORY 


CHAPTER  I 

IN  WHICH  WE  CONSIDER  PARIS,  VERMONT  AND 
OUR  HOME  FOLKS  FROM  THE  STANDPOINT  OF  OUR 
NEWSPAPER  OFFICE. 

UP  here  in  the  center  of  Vermont  in  a  valley 
enclosed  by  the  virile  summits  of  the  Green  Moun 
tains,  is  the  little  New  England  town  of  Paris. 

It  is  a  neighborly  state  —  a  neighborly  little  town. 
It  is  lovingly  known  as  "back  east"  to  large  numbers 
of  Yankee  folk  who  in  their  young  manhood  or 
womanhood  have  mistakenly  left  it  to  pursue  fickle 
fortune  in  states  afar.  It  is  called  "up  north"  by 
those  southerners  who  know  us  only  from  our  prom 
inence  in  the  weather  reports  or  think  of  Vermont  as 
open  for  travel  a  couple  of  months  only  in  the  sum 
mer  time.  As  for  the  country  at  large,  it  thinks  of 
us  as  a  quiet  little  state,  smelling  mostly  of  new- 
mown  hay  and  cow-barn,  chiefly  valuable  to  the 
union  as  a  producer  of  turkeys  for  its  Thanksgiv 
ing  dinners,  maple  syrup  for  its  breakfast  pancakes 
or  pretty  school  ma'ams  for  its  western  romances. 

Once  upon  a  time  our  town  consisted  merely  of  a 
few  houses,  two  general  stores,  a  printing  office,  a 
post-office,  and  a  blacksmith  shop,  barnacled  about 
a  country  crossroads. 

Today  Main  Street  is  a  thoroughfare  two  miles 
long  with  a  mile  of  modern  business  blocks  at  one 


4  THE  GREATER  GLORY 

end  and  an  equal  distance  filled  with  pretentious 
residences  at  the  other.  Side  streets  have  been  laid 
out  by  enterprising  real  estate  men ;  Main,  Maple 
and  Walnut  streets  have  been  paved  with  material 
on  which  our  appropriate  quota  of  Ford  automobiles 
skid  badly  in  wet  weather.  New  structures  have 
arisen  where  twenty  years  ago  fat,  sociable  New 
England  homesteads  stood  behind  white  rail  fences, 
banked  with  hollyhocks  and  cinnamon  roses. 
^  On  the  main  street  of  Paris,  between  the  Odd  Fel 
lows'  Hall  and  Edward  Brothers'  Cigar  Store,  dating 
back  to  the  early  days  of  the  community,  is  a  dingy 
brown  building  that  has  always  housed  a  printing 
office.  In  this  building  during  the  past  thirty-seven 
years,  two  men  have  been  publishing  a  small-town 
evening  newspaper.  One  of  them  is  a  kindly, 
grizzled  philosopher  by  the  name  of  Samuel  P.  Hod. 
The  other  is  his  partner,  —  the  humble  scribe  who 
sits  before  a  battered  old  exchange  table  recording 
this  narrative. 

It  is  a  town  landmark,  this  newspaper  office  of  ours. 
Our  sign 

The  Paris  Daily  Telegraph 

is    weather-beaten    and    the    letters    are    well-nigh 
indistinguishable. 

Inside  these  humble  premises  the  furniture  is 
barked  and  battered.  Beneath  the  old  pine  counter 
lies  the  dust  of  years.  An  antiquated  green  box  safe 
by  the  side  window  is  piled  high  with  wasted  govern 
ment  money  in  the  shape  of  Congressional  Records 
and  files  of  old  correspondence  which  we  do  not  know 
why  we  save  yet  which  we  cannot  bring  ourselves  to 
throw  away.  The  pigeon  holes  of  the  walnut  desks 
are  stuffed  with  memoranda  and  impedimenta,  col- 


THE  GREATER  GLORY  5 

lected  there  through  many  years,  that  we  are  always 
going  to  clean  out  some  day  when  we  can  find  the 
time. 

Yet  on  those  rainy  days  or  those  holidays  when  we 
do  have  the  time  and  make  noble  start  at  the  epochal 
renovation,  we  do  not  get  far  into  the  mass.  For 
very  soon  we  are  sitting  with  faded  yellow  clippings 
dropped  before  us  —  letters  of  bygone  days  —  per 
haps  here  and  there  a  once-used  photograph  of  some 
familiar  face,  disappeared  these  many  years.  And 
cur  gaze  is  far  away;  there  is  a  dull  ache  in  our 
hearts ;  we  cannot  bring  ourselves  to  the  sacrilege  of 
disturbing  these  mute  testimonials  of  the  cruel 
flight  of  time.  We  cannot  consign  to  rubbish 
basket  or  furnace  fire  this  litter  which  comes  to  us 
in  these  hours  like  voices  and  faces  from  the  dead. 
Better  indeed,  to  let  the  youngsters  do  it  in  those 
future  years  when  we  likewise  shall  be  but  a  memory 
to  this  community  and  this  office. 

From  this  apparently  systemless  and  cluttered 
place  there  is  a  door  opening  into  a  long,  low-stud 
ded  apartment  in  the  rear.  In  a  more  pretentious 
plant  it  would  be  designated  as  the  mechanical 
department.  To  us  it  is  only  the  "  back  room."  Here 
are  laid  out  the  chipped  and  battered  imposing  stones 
and  racks  of  type-cases,  even  more  abused  than  the 
business  furniture  out  in  front.  The  floor  is  worn 
and  uneven  and  the  knots  in  the  old  boards  are  in 
evidence.  Floor  cracks  are  pressed  full  of  dirt  and 
tiny  types,  swept  there  by  careless  boys  through  all 
the  years  that  have  slipped  away. 

Over  in  the  southwest  corner  is  our  old  linotype 
machine.  It  is  wheezy  and  rheumatic,  sure  to  lie 
down  on  us  at  the  wrong  time  and  some  day  to  go  to 
pieces  like  the  wonderful  one-horse  shay.  Finally, 


6  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

in  the  opposite  corner,  surrounded  by  vicious  ink- 
barrels  with  gobby  sides  and  rolls  of  newsprint, 
is  the  Cox-Duplex  press  that  has  stood  by  us 
through  the  years  like  some  faithful  old  animal.  It 
has  often  been  starved  for  oil,  it  is  encrusted  with 
dirt  for  want  of  care,  but  it  has  done  its  duty  some 
how,  and  we  could  no  more  bring  ourselves  to  dispose 
of  it  and  put  in  stereotyping  machinery  than  we  could 
bring  ourselves  to  dispose  of  one  of  our  children. 

This  is  the  home  of  our  little  country  paper.  It 
is  far  from  being  a  pretty  place.  Yet  we  love  it  — 
we  who  have  labored  in  it  for  over  a  quarter  century. 
For  in  it  we  see  in  a  thousand  little  ways  reminders 
of  the  changes  time  has  wrought  —  to  ourselves,  our 
profession,  our  town,  our  nation.  We  love  it  most, 
however,  for  the  human  associations  it  has  meant 
to  us  in  the  daily  routine  of  getting  out  our  paper. 

The  career  of  the  Telegraph  began  in  the  'eighties. 
It  is  an  eight-page,  seven-column  little  paper,  often 
poorly  printed  in  the  cold  Vermont  winters  when  the 
ink  will  not  flow  freely  in  the  fountains  of  the  press, 
or  in  the  warm  New  England  summers  when  the  same 
material  spreads  far  too  copiously  to  suit  the  con 
noisseur  of  good  printing  or  a  pressman  with  a 
vocabulary  surpassing  any  crass  imitation  in  type. 
Its  front  page  is  given  over  to  world  news,  telegraphed 
each  noontime  from  Boston.  Its  inside  pages 
chronicle,  from  day  to  day,  month  to  month  and 
year  to  year,  the  poorly- written  stereotyped  advertise 
ments  of  our  local  merchants,  bordering  the  daily 
summary  of  the  activities  of  our  home  folk :  births 
and  marriages  and  deaths,  little  stories  of  social 
glory  which  from  time  to  time  descend  on  homes 
about  our  community;  the  meeting  and  parting  of 
friends ;  business  success  or  failure ;  illness  and  ac- 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  7 

cident,  petty  felony  and  unspeakable  tragedy,  —  all 
the  sad  gamut  of  human  affairs  from  the  bathetic  to 
the  sacred,  with  which  the  country  newspaperman 
does  business. 

If  you  are  one  of  those  rare  souls  who  find  delight 
in  the  study  of  your  fellow  men,  come  and  live  and 
work  awhile  in  the  office  of  a  little  country  paper. 
For  in  the  office  of  such  a  paper  in  an  American  small 
town  you  will  get  down  to  the  bedrock  of  human 
nature  closer  than  you  have  ever  reached  before.  All 
day  long  through  the  front  office  will  filter  the  pathos 
and  bathos  of  the  lives  of  your  kind  in  the  form  of 
news  for  your  columns :  births  and  marriages  and 
deaths;  inspiring  stories  of  success,  heartrending 
stories  of  failure ;  cheap  snobbery  masquerading  as 
quality ;  noble  aspirations,  unrequited  sacrifices, 
kindly  return  of  good  for  evil.  And  in  the  back 
room  you  will  find  the  printer  folk,  perhaps  not  so 
picturesque  as  they  were  yesteryear,  but  still  very 
humanly  interesting  and  each  man  and  each  woman 
with  a  story  worth  the  telling. 

In  this  intensely  interesting  and  very  human  task 
of  publishing  this  little  country  newspaper,  there 
comes  a  time  in  each  week  when  we  view  our  w^ork  in 
perspective.  It  is  the  hour  on  Saturday  afternoons 
when  the  distribution  of  the  pay  envelopes  has  been 
made  and  the  labors  of  another  seven  days  are  ended. 
The  boys  and  girls  of  the  back  room  have  gone.  The 
whirring  of  the  shafting  that  runs  the  big  press  is 
silent ;  the  motors  on  the  linotype  have  been  shut  off 
and  the  front  office  is  no  longer  conscious  of  the  faint 
clicking  of  matrices  falling  into  endless  lines  of  news. 
With  the  back  room  smelling  of  printing-ink,  lubri 
cating  grease  and  linotype  fumes  like  a  lair  of  beasts, 
the  plant  rests  for  twenty-four  hours.  Then  we  who 


8  THE   GREATER  GLORY 

are  responsible  for  this  newspaper,  sit  in  the  front 
office  where  we  can  see  the  crowds  milling  up  and 
down  Main  Street  with  an  occasional  individual 
dropping  in  to  pay  his  subscription  or  an  advertising 
bill,  and  the  thoughts  that  come  to  us  are  solemn. 

We  have  completed  another  week.  We  have 
added  six  more  numbers  to  the  files  which  our  children 
and  our  children's  children  will  look  back  upon  some 
day,  perhaps  in  amusement,  perhaps  in  soft  sorrow. 
For  another  six  times  we  have  repeated  to  our  little 
world  the  fleeting  joys,  the  momentary  successes, 
the  simple  and  awful  little  tragedies  that  make  up 
the  daily  life  of  our  community  and  its  people. 

When  we  come  to  this  reflectory  time,  being  or 
dinary  two-legged  men  and  women  ourselves  in  the 
office  of  our  little  local  paper,  we  find,  ."ourselves 
unconsciously  asking  questions.  We  wonder  why  in 
some  of  the  homes,  the  new  babies  have  arrived  ;  why 
it  is  that  in  our  town  there  are  young  folks  whose 
love  affairs  have  not  had  a  happy  ending ;  why  many 
of  the  young  and  the  strong,  whose  futures  seemed  so 
promising,  have  been  removed  from  their  activities 
among  us ;  while  the  aged,  the  crippled,  the  morally 
deficient,  live  wearily  onward  ?  Thinking  of  our  own 
small  role,  we  wonder  if  we  have  done  right  in  print 
ing  certain  items  in  our  paper.  We  recall  incidents 
which  have  occurred  within  the  week.  Some  of  them 
make  us  wish  we  had  given  more  publicity  to  one  good 
work  and  less  to  some  other  thing  of  minor  value. 
We  regret  that  we  have  hurt  one  person's  feelings, 
although  all  unintentionally,  and  we  are  sorry  we 
were  so  lenient  with  another  who  deserved  far  more 
censure  than  we  meted  to  him. 

Then  when  we  are  deepest  in  our  spell  of  the  blues, 
and  when  we  have  smoked  a  pipe  or  two  by  way  of 


THE  GREATER  GLORY  9 

adjusting  our  philosophy,  it  comes  to  us  that  there  is 
a  townful,  a  stateful,  a  nationful  of  men  and  women 
around  us  who  perpetually  ask  these  questions.  All 
over  this  continent  and  this  hemisphere  are  millions 
upon  millions  of  ordinary  folk  who  have  these  periods 
of  mental  depression  and  introspection. 

But  this  is  a  strange  thing  about  these  ordinary 
folks.  The  fact  that  yet  awhile  there  appears  no 
answer  does  not  shake  their  faith  in  the  belief  that 
they  should  do  their  best  while  the  opportunity  is 
theirs. 

It  may  be  raising  a  family  of  freckled-faced  young 
sters  to  become  ordinarily  good  men  and  women. 
It  may  be  paying  for  a  home.  It  may  be  building  a 
business  which  adds  to  the  town's  industries.  It 
may  be  only  in  the  hundred-and-one  little  tasks  of 
a  ten-hour,  three-dollar  day.  But  underneath  the 
conscious  endeavor  is  the  effort  to  do  the  best  possible. 

So  we  of  our  newspaper  office,  looking  at  ourselves 
and  the  people  of  our  community,  have  grown  to  take 
these  Saturday  afternoons  more  and  more  philo 
sophically  as  we  have  gone  onward  week  by  week  and 
year  by  year  with  our  labors.  When  we  finally  lock 
the  office  and  go  home  for  the  brief  respite  of  the 
Sabbath  day,  we  are  forced  to  recognize  that  there  is 
more  of  good  in  life  than  bad,  more  of  success  than 
failure,  more  of  reward  than  unrequited  struggle.  I 
might  say  that  our  position  and  occupation  in  the 
community  have  made  us  optimists  in  spite  of  our 
selves. 

But  now  and  then  we  of  this  country  newspaper 
office  take  note  of  some  exceptional  person  —  some 
exceptional  struggle  —  some  exceptional  success  — 
experienced  by  some  one  in  our  village,  it  being  the 
nature  of  our  business  to  note  such  things.  Oc- 


10  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

casionally  there  comes  a  case  where  some  one  has 
done  the  almost  impossible  thing,  made  the  almost 
inhuman  sacrifice,  achieved  the  almost  improbable 
attainment.  And  these  rare  folk  stand  out  in  the 
high  light. 

Strange  to  relate,  if  we  were  to  catalogue  some  of 
these,  we  would  be  forced  to  recognize  that  the 
majority  of  them  have  been  women.  What  is  more, 
judged  by  conventional  standards,  they  have  been 
quite  average  women.  Some  of  them  have  come  to 
our  attention  in  the  daily  news  grist  filtering  through 
our  office  for  publication.  Many  of  them  have 
worked  for  us.  And  —  we  give  credit  where  it  is 
due  —  some  of  them  have  married  these  ordinary 
aggravating  bewhiskered  males  who  are  responsible 
for  this  paper. 

So  it  has  come  to  us  that  it  would  not  be  out  of 
place  or  character  with  the  function  we  are  supposed 
to  fill  in  this  community  to  speak  of  the  achieve 
ments  of  these  in  a  larger  way  than  our  paper  war 
rants,  that  they  may  become  as  much  of  an  incentive 
to  those  in  the  great  world  outside  of  our  valley  as 
they  have  been  to  those  within. 

For  after  all,  ordinary,  struggling,  curious,  hopeful, 
discontented,  American  folks  are  not  half  so  much 
helped  on  their  earthly  way  by  preachment  or  pre 
cept  as  by  the  exposition  of  others  of  their  kind  who 
have  been  strong  where  they  have  been  weak,  who 
have  succeeded  where  they  have  failed. 

It  is  with  these  thoughts  in  mind,  in  this  setting 
and  this  atmosphere,  for  these  reasons,  that  I  sit  here 
before  this  old  exchange  table  and  begin  the  story 
of  a  woman's  life. 

The  story  of  Mary  Wood,  to  us  in  this  newspaper 
office,  is  the  frail,  delicate,  beautiful  little  history  of 


THE  GREATER  GLORY  11 

the  love  of  a  girl  for  a  man  and  for  the  sons  of  that 
man  which  that  girl  bore  him.  Yet  somehow,  as  we 
grow  older  and  go  down  the  hill  of  life  and  see  the 
new  children  coming  up  and  the  marriages  taking 
place  and  watch  the  friends  and  loved  ones  and  ac 
quaintances  dropping  by  the  wayside,  the  story  of 
little  Mary  Wood  resolves  itself  into  a  eulogy 
of  the  lives  of  all  good  women  everywhere.  And  the 
hoped-for  reward  in  the  telling  is  that  all  good 
women  everywhere  may  know  while  yet  on  this  side 
the  Valley  of  Shadows  that  we  men  folk  —  while 
often  thoughtless  and  preoccupied  with  other  things 
—  do  not  always  forget  or  fail  to  appreciate. 


CHAPTER  H 

WE  CONSIDER  MRS.  WHEELER,  A  VICTIM  OF  SELF- 
MADE  CIRCUMSTANCES,  AND  GAIN  OUR  FIRST 
PICTURE  OF  MARY  WOOD. 

IF  you  should  come  to  Paris,  go  eastward  to  the  end 
of  Main  Street,  and  take  the  road  over  the  Green 
River  bridge  and  past  Haystack  Mountain,  you 
would  ultimately  find  yourself  in  rolling  New  Eng 
land  country  —  meadow,  pasture  and  wood  lot  — 
with  solitary  farm  homes  barnacled  against  the  rocky 
hillsides  and  dusty  roads  winding  over  the  hills  and 
far  away.  You  would  pass  the  Marshall  Mill  Pond 
Bottoms,  colloquially  known  as  the  "fiats."  You 
would  traverse  the  Green  Mountain  Valley  district 
and  pass  through  Simonds'  Woods.  After  an  hour's 
drive  through  sumach  thicket,  deer  bottom,  spruce 
timber  and  roadside  briar-bloom,  you  would  leave 
the  dilapidated  McDermott  lumber  job  behind  you 
and  ascend  Cobb  Hill. 

Near  the  top  of  Cobb  Hill  on  the  right-hand  side 
of  the  road,  you  would  come  to  a  weather-beaten  old 
house  now  faded  to  a  sun-blistered  mustard  brown. 
A  crazy  stone  wall  beneath  a  row  of  hoary,  gnarled, 
unpruned  maples  divides  the  south  dooryard  from  the 
highway. 

No  one  lives  in  that  old  house  at  present.  For  a 
long  time  its  rooms  have  been  empty,  its  doors 
locked,  its  blinds  drawn.  The  lilacs  grow  ragged 
and  frowsy  at  the  corners  and  are  full  of  caterpillars. 


THE  GREATER  GLORY  13 

The  back  yard  is  choked  with  caraway,  yarrow  and 
bastard  raspberry  with  an  added  mixture  of  wild 
roses,  syringas,  blossomless  hollyhocks,  and  coarse 
grained  rhubarb  banked  against  the  west  wall  of  the 
house  and  ell.  A  well-sweep  by  the  opposite  fence 
has  defied  the  years  but  beyond  it  lie  the  founda 
tions  and  gray-timber  ruins  of  some  out-buildings 
that  collapsed  in  the  Shirkshire  storm  of  two  years 
ago.  Photographers  journey  long  distances  to  snap 
the  place  from  different  angles.  It  is  the  typical 
New  England  abandoned  farm. 

An  abandoned  farm  indeed !  There  are  many  of 
them  scattered  through  this  section  of  Vermont. 
True,  this  particular  place  is  not  so  dilapidated  and 
abandoned  as  some  others  with  their  sashless  windows 
and  sunken  roofs  and  fallen  doors.  But  it  is  pathetic 
enough,  especially  to  those  who  know  the  story  of 
the  place  as  we  of  the  Telegraph  office  have  come  to 
know  it. 

The  yard  of  the  old  place  is  picked  up  very  clean. 
The  haylofts  in  the  old  barn  are  empty.  The  place 
was  stripped  of  nearly  everything  of  value  at  the 
time  of  the  auction  when  Mary  Purse  came  to  live 
in  the  village.  Even  the  three-forked  lightning  rods 
on  both  gables  of  the  house  and  on  the  front  of  the 
high  barn  were  bought  for  old  metal  by  a  Jewish 
gentleman  of  our  community  who  is  somewhat  of  a 
connoisseur  in  old  metal  with  a  clandestine  remelt- 
able  value.  No,  the  place  is  abandoned  indeed  and 
stands  on  the  little  hilltop  all  alone,  waiting  the  spark 
from  the  pipe  of  some  tramp  or  a  northern  gale  to 
carry  it  down  to  oblivion.  Yet  what  has  taken  place 
in  those  naked  lonely  rooms  —  the  unspeakable  joys 
they  have  seen,  the  wordless  griefs,  the  nameless 
sorrows  —  brings  a  warm  glow  about  our  hearts 


14  THE   GREATER  GLORY 

and  wells  our  eyes  with  tears,  —  and  there  is  nothing 
maudlin  in  this  frank  confession  either. 

Probably  we  in  our  little  country  office  know  more 
about  the  kinship  and  inside  history  of  every  man, 
woman  and  child  in  our  town  than  any  one  else,  for 
that  is  our  business.  But  we  especially  know  more 
about  this  particular  family,  this  abandoned  farm, 
than  any  other  native  because  it  is  literally  tied  up 
with  the  Telegraph  office  with  ties  of  blood.  We 
know  there  are  times  when  thoughtless  folk  in  our 
town  drive  the  visitor  and  the  stranger  past  the  place 
of  a  summer  afternoon,  point  their  whips  at  it  and 
remark:  "That's  the  old  Purse  place,  the  home  of 
an  unfortunate  family  that  finally  summoned  up 
gumption  to  amount  to  somethin'."  But  they  say 
that  because  they  cannot  know  the  history  of  the 
family  as  we  have  seen  it  from  the  inside,  from  the 
night  that  Mary  sat  with  her  mother  in  the  little 
room  under  the  eaves,  down  to  the  present.  For 
when  we  drive  past,  an  affection  for  it  arises  with 
in  us  as  though  we  were  one  of  the  family  ourselves, 
and  the  place  meant  father  and  mother  and  home. 

Away  back  many  years  ago,  before  New  England 
had  discarded  her  well-sweeps  for  windmills  and 
filtered  water  systems ;  before  electric  cars  had  come 
in ;  before  the  Sherman  Act  and  the  ten-cent  maga 
zine  and  the  machine-gun,  when  Central  Park  was 
one  of  the  attractions  of  New  York,  and  all  our  news 
papers  were  set  in  nonpareil  by  tramp  printers  who 
knew  their  Shakespeare  as  well  as  the  high  school 
girl  of  the  present  knows  who  is  married  in  the 
movies,  —  the  house  was  in  its  prime  and  very  much 
occupied,  and  the  windows  were  open,  especially  one 
window  in  the  gable  of  the  upper  story. 


THE   GREATER  GLORY  15 

It  was  a  stuffy  little  bedroom  up  under  the  eaves. 
It  smelled  of  weather-dried  shingles  and  cedar  chests 
and  musty  closets  and  old  rag  carpets.  A  cheap 
low-hung  yellow  bedstead  with  a  ridiculously  high 
headboard  and  a  ridiculously  low  footboard  and  a 
bouquet  of  hideous  brown  flowers  painted  on  both 
occupied  the  corner  between  the  one  south  window 
and  the  west  wall,  squaring  out  into  the  room  and 
leaving  space  only  for  a  rocker  and  a  bureau  with 
a  badly-flawed  glass. 

Time-discolored  wall  paper  peeling  in  places,  Sun 
day-school  mottoes,  small  tintypes  and  photographs 
stuck  in  the  sides  of  the  cheap  mirror,  chairs  and 
dresser  and  mantelshelf  indicating  feminine  oc 
cupancy,  —  these  things  the  light  of  the  day  might 
have  disclosed.  Now  they  showed  dimly  or  in 
fantastic  shadow,  for  it  was  late  of  a  soft  spring  night, 
and  the  room  was  illumined  by  moonlight  outlining 
a  long  white  blotch  upon  the  floor. 

There  were  two  people  in  this  little  room  tucked 
away  beneath  the  twisted  old  eaves.  One  was  a  girl 
of  twenty  years  in  a  nightgown,  sitting  upon  the  bed 
with  her  back  against  the  billowing  pillows,  her  fair 
arms  clasped  about  her  knees,  troubled  eyes  fixed 
upon  the  shadows.  Near  the  head  of  the  bed  in  the 
rocker  sat  the  mother,  a  woman  with  terribly  red 
dened  hands.  An  elbow  on  the  narrow  sill  supported 
the  gnarled  fingers  as  they  pressed  against  her  lips, 
and  she  stared  wistfully  out  into  the  singing  spring 
night.  The  other  hand  fumbled  aimlessly,  folding 
and  refolding  a  pleat  in  the  threadbare  wrapper 
across  her  lap. 

Mother  and  daughter  had  been  for  hours  so,  while 
the  moon  went  higher  and  higher  up  the  sky,  and 
the  world  sank  deeper  and  deeper  into  slumber. 


16  THE  GREATER  GLORY 

A  warm  night  breeze  wafted  the  muslin  curtains 
with  which  the  one  box  window  was  hung.  The  town 
clock  far  over  in  North  Foxboro  tolled  eleven  lone 
some  strokes.  Each  time,  in  the  rooms  below,  a 
similar  clock  added  its  fussy,  absurd  confirmation 
of  the  passing  hours. 

Her  eyes  fixed  on  the  moonlit  country  spread  out 
down  the  hill  and  away  before  her,  the  mother 
listened  until  the  last  stroke  of  both  clocks  had  died 
away.  Then  she  spoke  in  a  husky  whisper. 

"In  the  story  books,  women  folks  in  my  fix  would 
pack  up  their  belongin's  and  leave.  No  self- 
respectin'  woman'd  stand  for  it,  not  in  story  books. 
But  it's  different  in  real  life  when  their  children  are 
to  be  thought  of,  and  when  the  place  you're  leavin* 
is  the  only  home  you  got !  " 

Then  silence  again.  Somewhere  off  in  the  hills 
a  whippoorwill  was  singing. 

"'Taint  as  if  I  had  folks  to  go  to,"  she  went  on. 
"And  besides  —  besides  —  there's  Artie.  What 
could  I  do  with  Artie  if  I  went?  It's  certain  I 
couldn't  go  to  work  nowhere's  and  —  take  him  with 
me." 

The  girl  turned  her  face  about  and  gazed  up  at 
the  clear,  high-riding  moon. 

"We  could  go  together,  mother,"  she  said.  "I 
could  work,  and  you  could  help  out." 

"That's  just  what  I  don't  want  you  should  do, 
dearie,  not  yet.  I  want  you  should  finish  at  the 
Academy  and  graduate,  and  know  you  got  what's  as 
good  as  a  high-school  education ;  I'll  feel  it  was  worth 
all  the  sacrifice.  It's  why  I'm  puttin'  up  with  so 
much  from  him,  him  —  your  stepfather.  I  been 
hopin'  almost  against  hope  that  he  wouldn't  find 
more'n  his  usual  amount  o'  fault  with  you  stayin' 


THE  GREATER  GLORY  17 

around  home  and  just  helpin'  me,  until  I  could  see 
you  graduate.  But  after  the  way  he's  been  talkin' 
the  last  few  weeks,  and  especially  after  what  he  says 
to-night  - 

"Don't  take  on  so  over  that,  mother.  After  all, 
maybe  leaving  home  won't  kill  me.  Maybe  it  would 
be  the  best  thing,  seeing  that  staying  around  here 
keeps  causing  you  so  much  trouble  and  abuse." 

"But  where'd  you  go,  dearie?  Out  among 
strangers  !  I  ain't  got  no  folks  and  Amos's  folks 
couldn't  afford  it  even  if  they  was  so  minded.  You'd 
have  to  go  into  the  world  with  only  half  a  schoolin' 
and  knowin'  no  business  to  support  you." 

"But  if  you  should  die  suddenly,  mother,  I'd 
have  to  face  it.  And  I  got  to  face  it  sometime, 
anyway." 

"Which  ain't  no  reason  why  you  should  leave  and 
miss  your  schooling  so  long  as  I'm  alive  and  all  it 
means  is  me  standin'  up  for  you !" 

"It  isn't  fair  for  you  to  put  it  that  way.  It 
sounds  as  though  my  education  was  taking  some 
thing  out  of  you  that  I  have  no  right  to  take."  The 
girl's  voice  was  tender. 

"But  you  have,  Mary  girl.  When  you  get  to  be 
a  mother  you'll  realize  how  you  don't  begrudge  havin' 
your  children  'take  things  out  o'  you'  that  way." 

"When  I  get  married,  mother,  and  have  my  own 
home  — "  began  the  girl. 

"  Don't  talk  about  it ! "  the  mother  broke  in.  "  It 
hurts !  Not  because  it'll  mean  losin'  you  who's 
nearer  and  dearer  to  me  than  any  one  else  on  earth, 
but  because  you  don't  understand  what  it  means  to 
be  married.  You  just  don't  understand  what  the 
chances  are  you're  takin'.  You  —  don't  —  under 
stand!" 


18  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

"You  mean,  mother,"  corrected  the  girl,  "I 
don't  understand  what  the  chances  are  I'd  be  taking 
if  I  married  a  man  like  Pa  Wheeler.  But  if  I  married 
a  man  like  my  own  father ;  if  I  were  to  be  as  happy 
as  you  claim  you  were  in  the  one  short  year  before 
my  own  father  died,  you  wouldn't  feel  that  way, 
would  you,  mother?" 

The  woman  bit  a  quivering  lip. 

"There  ain't  often  anybody  as  happy  as  I  was 
that  one  year  with  your  pa,  Mary.  And  yet  from 
my  experiences  with  men  folks  since,  I  wonder  if 
that  happiness  wasn't  due  more  to  his  dyin'  before 
the  novelty  o'  livin'  together  wore  off  than  because 
the  match  was  so  awfully  perfect." 

"You  ought  not  to  let  yourself  be  as  bitter  as 
that,  mother.  It'll  spoil  your  faith  in  everything." 

"It  has  —  almost,  Mary.  Yes,  I'm  bitter  !  And 
why  shouldn't  I  be  bitter?  What  chance  has  a 
woman  got  back  here  in  this  forsaken  country? 
Tell  me  that  —  just  tell  me  that !  No  matter  how 
fine  her  ambitions  or  how  badly  she  longs  to  better 
herself,  tell  me  what  chance  she's  got  when  the  men 
folks  ain't  no  better  than  you've  seen  round  these 
parts  since  you  was  old  enough  to  know  about  — 
things?" 

The  daughter  remained  silent. 

"What  chance  has  a  farmer's  wife  got,  anyhow?" 
the  mother  cried,  all  the  sorrow  of  her  heart  in  the 
tone  of  her  voice.  "We're  born  of  poor  folks  off  on 
some  lonely  weed-grown  country  road.  We  grow 
up  with  no  society  but  goin'  down  to  the  general 
store  or  Sunday  meeting  or  an  occasional  dance. 
We  get  what  education  we  can  at  some  white  coun 
try  schoolhouse  taught  by  a  girl  who'd  be  in  a  place 
in  some  city  school  if  she  knew  enough  herself. 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  19 

Then  soon's  we  reach  the  place  where  we're  a  finan 
cial  drag  on  our  folks,  the  boys  come  courtin'. " 

"I  know,  mother,  I  know,"  sympathized  the  girl. 

"They're  boys  same  as  their  fathers  was  before 
'em,"  went  on  the  mother,  "and  same  as  their 
fathers  was  before  them.  They  got  no  ambition. 
They  don't  know  nothin'  but  farmin'.  Their  ideas 
o'  bein'  men  and  growed-up  is  chewin'  tobacco, 
smokin'  pipes,  sayin'  swear  words  and  considerin* 
women  folks  as  a  possession  to  run  a  farm  with  like 
a  plow  or  a  horse.  We  marry  'em  because  we  don't 
know  what's  in  the  world  and  feel  flattered  by  their 
attentions.  Or  we  become  wives  because  it's  dis 
graceful  to  be  an  old  maid,  or  because  we  just  have 
to  get  out  into  a  home  of  our  own,  or  because  we 
ain't  never  met  real  men  ! " 

"You're  getting  yourself  all  worked  up,  mother," 
declared  the  girl. 

"We  marry  such  as  ask  us,  usually  the  first  askin', 
and  go  off  to  lonely  farms  in  the  hills.  Then  quick 
enough  the  mask  o'  holy  matrimony  is  stripped  away  ! 
Life?  It  turns  out  just  plain  hard  work,  and  suffer 
ing  and  goin'  without  things,  bein'  abused,  stayin' 
alone,  kept  from  havin'  money  to  spend  for  ourselves, 
bearin'  children,  fightin'  the  silence  till  death  or  in 
sanity  comes  as  a  blessin'."  She  choked  a  bit 
hysterically,  and  the  girl  put  out  her  hand,  but  it 
had  no  effect. 

"We  have  to  have  children  when  we  don't  want 
'em,"  she  cried,  "and  when  our  men  folks  want 
'em  less'n  we  do.  We  get  up  before  daylight  and 
through  the  long  hours  o'  forenoon,  afternoon,  and 
into  the  night  we  slave  with  our  work  all  cut  out 
for  years,  years !  —  weary  years,  with  no  thanks, 
no  praise,  no  money,  no  cooperation,  just  existence. 


20  THE   GREATER  GLORY 

that's  all,  —  just  plain  existence  !  Don't  make  no 
difference  how  much  work  we  do,  Mary,  it  don't 
get  us  nowhere ;  we  just  have  to  take  what  the  men 
folks  hand  out  and  endure  in  silence,  and  if  we 
buck  up  and  run  away  from  it  all,  we're  bad  women 
and  lackin'  character!" 

"I  know,  mother,  I  know  !" 

"It's  a  hard,  rough  lot  we  got,  Mary,  with  precious 
little  at  the  end  of  it  but  a  funeral  in  some  village 
church,  the  lowerin'  into  a  grave  in  some  quiet 
hillside  cemetery  runnin'  mostly  to  wild  asters  and 
rank  grass  and  weeds.  And  the  grass  soon  enough 
grows  over  our  grave,  and  hides  even  our  name,  and 
the  date  on  our  headstone." 

"Don't,  mother!"  the  girl  pleaded  piteously, 
-  "don't  talk  that  way." 

"I  can't  help  talking  that  way.  I  been  puttin' 
up  with  it,  —  just  for  your  sake,  Mary  —  so's 
maybe  I  could  keep  you  from  doin'  what  I  have  done. 
I  married  Pa  Wheeler  so's  maybe  I'd  have  a  home 
and  you'd  have  a  home  and  maybe  a  father  to  help 
you.  He  was  nice  enough  to  me  so  long  as  I  was 
only  his  housekeeper  —  you  know  that.  I  thought, 
o'  course,  it'd  keep  up  after  we  was  man  and  wife. 
I'd  been  so  happy  that  one  brief  year  with  your  father 
that  I'd  clean  forgot  my  own  mother's  hard  time. 
But  just  as  soon  as  the  new  wore  off,  I  see  it  was  my 
mother's  fix  all  over  again.  And  for  fourteen  years 
I  been  standin'  it.  Artie  come  along  —  crippled 
like  he  is  on  account  o'  the  way  Pa  Wheeler  abused 
me  'fore  he  was  born,  and  he's  been  a  helpless 
whimpering  burden  that's  kept  me  tied  here  endur 
ing  it  all.  The  weeks  has  grown  into  months  and 
months  into  years,  and  all  my  ambitions  to  moke 
something  out  o'  myself  for  my  children  —  all  my 


THE  GREATER  GLORY  21 

likin'  for  pretty  things,  all  my  yearnin'  for  education 
myself  —  has  all  gone  for  nothin'  but  doin'  the  work 
peaceable  to  keep  JPa's  temper  down,  livin'  for  only 
you  and  Artie  —  for  after  all,  I'm  his  mother  — 
and  hopin'  to  get  you  started  right.  And  it's  from 
goin'  through  with  it  and  knowin'  what  it's  like 
that  I  want  to  save  you  from  it,  Mary.  It's  why 
I  feel  hurt  and  afraid  when  you  talk  about  the  time 
when  you'll  be  married.  You  don't  know  what  it 
means,  Mary.  You  just  don't  know  what  it  means." 

The  girl  answered  sorrowfully  : 

**  The  world's  awful  unfair  to  some  folks  who  don't 
deserve  it,  isn't  it,  mother?" 

"Lots  of  older  heads  than  yours  and  wiser  heads 
than  mine  have  made  the  same  observation  long 
ago  and  arrived  at  about  the  same  conclusion  !" 

The  girl  watched  the  stars  —  millions  and  millions 
of  stars  —  peaceful  stars  —  twinkling  stars  —  in  the 
midnight  sky  —  but  stars  that  often  mean  only 
insanity  to  lonely  farmers'  wives  exiled  off  in  the 
country's  great  silent  places.  After  a  time,  tears 
like  chips  of  diamonds  glinted  in  her  eyes. 

"It  spoils  all  the  dreams  of  the  future  to  think 
that  marrying  means  that,  mother.  There  must  be 
some  good  boys  somewhere  who  grow  up  without 
looking  on  their  wives  that  way." 

"For  your  sake,  Mary,  I  hope  there  is  —  I  hope 
there  is !  But  that  brings  us  around  to  the  subject 
we  were  talking  about  a  few  minutes  ago  —  you 
can't  marry  them  kind  that  are  worth  while,  and 
gentlemen,  while  you're  only  a  little  country  bump 
kin  that  don't  know  nothin'.  It's  one  of  the  reasons 
why  I  want  you  should  finish  at  the  Academy  — 
get  an  education  that'll  bring  you  the  proper  boy, 
the  right  sort,  with  brains  and  education  and  am- 


22  THE   GREATER  GLORY 

bitjon  —  all  o'  which  means  courtesy  and  kindness. 
You  got  the  natural  good  looks  and  the  ability, 
Mary.  You  ain't  been  spoiled  by  no  foolish  no 
tions.  You  can  do  it  if  you  get  the  education." 

Then  for  a  long  time  it  was  quiet  in  the  little  bed 
room.  Somewhere  down  in  the  lilacs  at  the  corner  of 
the  house  a  tramp  cricket  cheeped  philosophically. 
In  the  lower  pasture  below  the  orchard,  among 
the  rushes  bordering  the  swamp,  the  frogs  were 
piping  with  a  chorus  that  was  hourly  growing 
lighter  as  the  night  deepened.  Their  music  had  a 
melancholy  that  all  the  experiences  that  came  to  the 
girl  in  after  life,  and  all  the  joy  and  all  the  success, 
could  never  entirely  efface.  Each  springtime  when 
the  frogs  began  peeping,  the  memory  returned  of  that 
little  eaves  bedroom  and  that  moonlight  night  in 
June,  back  when  she  was  nineteen-goin'-on-twenty 
and  she  waited  with  her  mother  the  homecoming  of 
"Silent"  Wheeler  from  the  McDermott  job  down 
the  valley. 

"Mother,"  she  asked,  "if  it  came  to  a  choice 
between  a  poor  man  who'd  treat  you  decently  and 
love  you  or  a  rich  man  who'd  see  you  got  plenty  of 
money  but  —  not  much  else  —  which  would  you 
take?" 

"I  pray  God  I  might  never  have  to  decide  !" 

"It  isn't  fair  to  answer  so." 

"There  ain't  no  such  thing  as  a  poor  man  treating 
his  women  folks  decent  and  loving  them  ! "  exclaimed 
the  embittered  woman.  "I'm  afraid,  after  all  I 
been  through,  that  I'd  take  my  chances  with  the 
rich  man."  Her  voice  wavered.  She  leaned  over 
and  buried  her  face  on  her  arms  across  the  bed. 
"Oh,  God  !  —  God  !  —  God  ! "  she  wept  hysterically, 
"forgive  me  for  sayin'  it!  God  forgive  me!  But  I 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  23 

have  stood  so  much,  God  —  so  much  for  such  a  long, 
long  time  !  I  guess  at  last  I'm  goin'  crazy  !" 

"Mother,  mother!  You're  not  going  crazy. 
Don't  let  yourself  get  all  worked  up  like  that. 
You're  just  feelin'  badly  because  Pa  told  me  to 
pack  up  my  things  and  get  out,  to-night.  You're 
sorrowful  because  he  took  your  last  month's  egg 
money  and  went  down  to  McDermott's  to  get  drunk 
on  instead  of  using  his  own." 

"It  ain't  the  loss  of  no  egg  money,  dearie,  al 
though  that's  hard  enough,  seein'  I  was  savin'  up 
for  to  get  you  the  muslin  dress  for  the  dance  down 
to  Christie's.  It's  the  hopelessness  of  it  —  for  me. 
You  ain't  made  no  fatal  mistake  yet.  You  ain't 
made  no  mistake  and  saddled  yourself  with  debt 
and  work  and  unhappiness  and  hopelessness  for  the 
future.  There's  the  chance  for  you  to  meet  the  right 
kind  o'  boy  with  money  and  ambition  and  ability  to 
get  ahead  and  be  happy  with  him.  But  there's  no 
such  relief  for  me.  I'm  just  tied  here  —  tied  for  life 
to  a  man  that  the  neighbors  say  is  half  crazy  —  who 
takes  my  money  and  goes  off  to  buy  cheap  rum  that 
makes  him  come  home  and  wreck  things  —  tied 
here  to  a  crippled  boy  that'd  die  if  I  didn't  look  after 
him  every  moment.  It's  having  to  give  myself  all 
the  time  as  a  peace  offering  trying  to  keep  a  home  for 
my  girl  so's  she  can  finish  her  education  like  other 
mother's  girls  and  stand  the  poor  chance  o'  bein'  a 
lady.  And  I  ask  —  what  have  I  done  to  deserve  it  ? 
It  ain't  fair,  God  —  just  ain't  fair  !  I  don't  wonder 
why  most  farmers  marry  two  or  three  times,  wearin' 
out  one  woman  after  another  like  cattle  and  buryin' 
-ra—  " 

"Please,  mother!  Oh  I  wish  I  knew  what  to 
do  !  —  What  would  remedy  things  !  I  wonder  if 


24  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

finishing  at  the  Academy  means  so  awfully  much 
after  all.  I  wonder  if  it's  worth  the  price  of  staying 
here  and  enduring  Pa  Wheeler's  abuses."  She  was 
silent  for  a  few  moments.  Then  she  tried  to  laugh. 
"When  I  get  married  it  won't  be  anything  at  all  the 
way  we  both  imagine.  Maybe  I'll  meet  some  — 

"It's  natural  for  you  to  look  on  the  bright  side, 
dearie.  You're  young  and  your  nerve  ain't  broken ; 
besides,  that's  your  way.  Me  —  I'm  old  and  faded 
and  washed  out  and  discouraged.  Look  at  my 
hands,  Mary !  See  how  hard  and  out  o'  shape  and 
red-colored  they  are.  I  can  remember  when  they 
was  even  whiter 'n  your'n.  There  was  a  time  — 

The  woman  straightened  up.  She  held  up  her 
hands  before  her.  They  looked  like  claws  —  the 
great  knobs  of  gnarled  knuckles  were  hideous  in 
the  moonlight. 

"Don't,  mother,  don't!"   cried  the  girl. 

The  moon  went  higher  and  higher  up  the  sky. 
The  piping  of  the  frogs  quieted  to  an  occasional 
solitary  note  off  down  in  the  dark.  The  clock  in 
the  lonely  tower  over  in  North  Foxboro  sent  twelve 
lonesome  strokes  over  the  sleeping  countryside ;  a 
few  moments  later  the  cheap  little  clock  belowstairs 
fussily  corroborated  the  hour  of  midnight. 

"Why  doesn't  he  come?"  sighed  the  woman. 
"If  he's  got  to  come  home  and  make  us  all  miserable, 
why  don't  he  have  it  done  with?  What's  keepin* 
him  ?  He'll  be  sick  for  a  week  if  he  drinks  enough  to 
keep  him  away  all  night !" 

"I  thought  a  moment  ago  that  I  heard  him!" 
answered  the  girl. 

Silence  again ! 

Far  down  the  Cobb  Hill  road  the  figure  of  a  man 
climbed  unsteadily.  He  covered  much  unnecessary 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  25 

ground.  He  stumbled  much  and  cursed  continually. 
Withal  he  made  progress. 

When  he  reached  the  house  at  the  top  of  the  hill 
on  the  right,  he  turned  under  the  maples  and  into 
the  yard. 

Mother  and  daughter,  waiting  in  the  moonlit 
upper  room,  heard  a  curse  come  up  from  the  yard. 
They  heard  a  man's  step  on  the  rear  porch  floor. 
His  heavy  boot  came  down  upon  a  loose  board  that 
settled  back  into  its  place  with  a  bump.  Then 
followed  a  fumbling  at  the  string-mended  screen 
door  and  the  slap  of  the  flimsy  thing  behind  him. 
Next  he  fell  over  a  chair  in  the  kitchen.  The  girl 
had  heard  a  repetition  of  all  on  countless  nights. 
Yet  this  night  she  shivered  with  a  nameless 
dread. 

"If  he'll  only  drop  asleep  in  one  o'  the  chairs!" 
prayed  the  wife. 

Long  ominous  silence  in  the  lower  kitchen  ! 

"I  hope  he  isn't  up  to  anything,"  whispered  the 
daughter. 

The  mother  drew  a  long  breath  for  poise  and 
strength.  She  arose  and  stood  before  the  window, 
looking  up  at  the  clear-cut  high  riding  moon  and 
the  myriad  stars  —  up  to  the  heavens  where  God 
is  supposed  to  dwell. 

"Holy  matrimony!"  she  whispered.  "Holy 
matrimony!"  Then  ashamed  of  her  sarcasm: 
"Dear  God,"  she  prayed  with  sudden  nobility, 

-  help  me ;  give  rne  the  strength  !  —  for  the  sake 
of  my  girl  give  me  the  strength  —  to  go  onward 
and  do  what  I  can  and  save  her  from  makin'  her 
mother's  mistake." 

The  silence  grew  into  minutes.  The  two  in  the 
upper  chamber  decided  the  man  had  fallen  into  a 


26  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

drunken  slumber.  Then  suddenly  up  from  the 
bottom  of  the  flight  came  the  roar  of  his  voice. 

"Sarah!"   he  bellowed. 

"Don't  go  down,  mother  !"  cried  the  girl. 

"I  got  to  go  down,  dearie.  If  I  don't,  it'll  only 
make  him  worse.  And  it  ain't  myself,  —  it's  you 
and  Artie  I  got  to  think  of."  She  gathered  the  red- 
yarn  shawl  about  her  narrow  shoulders  as  though 
for  protection,  and  disappeared  in  the  shadows  of 
the  narrow  hallway.  Straightening  out  on  the  bed, 
the  girl  buried  her  face  in  the  soft  pillows. 

Once  she  heard  her  mother's  shrill  voice  in  protest, 
followed  by  a  retort  in  burly  bass.  Only  once !  The 
speaking  solitudes  of  the  summer  night  were  resolv 
ing  into  whispers.  The  moon  was  moving  so  far 
westward  that  the  phosphorescent  patch  upon  the 
bedroom  floor  was  a  contorted  fantasy  in  one  corner. 
Even  the  tramp  cricket  in  the  lilacs  down  below 
had  grown  tired  like  the  frogs. 

A  quarter-hour  the  girl  lay  thinking,  straining 
her  ears  to  hear  evidences  of  trouble  below.  Sud 
denly  came  a  step  upon  the  stairs. 

She  sat  up  in  the  bed,  pulling  the  clothes  to  her 
white  throat.  The  rays  from  a  lighted  lantern  — 
weak,  weird  rays  —  showed  down  the  hallway  stairs. 
A  second  later  a  man  entered  her  room. 

He  was  a  heavy-set,  big-boned  man  in  a  black 
striped  shirt  and  overalls  that  stunk  of  the  cow  barns. 
He  wore  long  ragged  moustaches  and  had  flat 
jowls  with  a  week's  growth  of  characterless  black 
beard.  His  features  were  coarse,  with  the  eyes 
deeply  sunken.  They  were  large,  round,  ominous 
eyes.  When  the  man  was  under  the  influence  of 
liquor  they  smouldered  with  a  fire  of  deadly  green. 

"Silent"   Wheeler  was  the  nickname  by   which 


THE  GREATER  GLORY  27 

the  town  knew  him.  It  was  an  appropriate  nick 
name.  During  the  day,  as  he  met  and  mingled 
with  his  neighbors,  he  was  laconic,  taciturn,  friend 
less.  On  summer  nights  he  went  down  to  McDer- 
mott's  where  he  spent  the  hours  getting  morosely 
drunk.  In  the  other  three  seasons  he  sat  at  home 
before  the  fire,  nursing  the  poker,  raising  one  of 
the  covers  and  spitting  from  time  to  time  with 
sharp  hiss  into  the  stove.  In  this  manner  passed 
hours  and  hours.  When  addressed  by  wife  or  step 
daughter  he  nodded  or  ignored  them.  Always  he 
was  thinking,  thinking,  thinking,  —  brooding  over  a 
wrong.  The  neighbors  declared  he  was  holding  it 
against  his  wife  for  giving  him  a  crippled  idiot  as  his 
only  son.  But  that  was  conjecture.  At  ten  o'clock 
he  would  descend  to  the  cellar  for  his  porter.  He 
drank  it  alone  by  lantern  light  in  the  musty  regions 
belowstairs.  Then  he  went  to  bed  without  speak 
ing  and  snored  through  the  hours.  Weeks  passed 
thus  —  always  the  brooding,  brooding,  brooding  — 
always  the  watching  of  the  movements  of  wife  or 
stepdaughter  with  the  baleful  green  eyes,  always 
biding  his  time  to  set  a  great  wrong  right. 

This  man  came  into  the  girl's  room  carrying  the 
lantern  which  the  woman  with  the  terrible  reddened 
hands  left  burning  each  night  in  the  kitchen  to 
light  him  for  his  slug  of  porter.  He  set  the  lantern 
down  upon  a  corner  of  the  dresser  where  its  greasy 
base  marked  a  ring  which  ruined  the  delicate  em 
broidery.  Kicking  the  rocker  out  of  the  way,  he 
moved  toward  the  bed,  the  green  eyes  fixed  omi 
nously  on  the  girl's  white  face. 

"Pa!"   she  cried. 

She  shrank  away  from  him,  huddled  down  against 
the  opposite  wall,  the  bedclothing  drawn  to  her  throat. 


28  THE   GREATER  GLORY 

"  Pa  !     What  is  it  you  want  ?  " 

The  stepfather  stood  unsteadily  before  her.  Sens 
ing  the  feel  of  an  ugly  knife  in  his  coarse  palm,  force 
of  habit  prompted  him  to  bring  a  plug  of  tobacco 
from  his  overalls  pocket  and  cut  himself  a  huge 
twisted  chew. 

"I  want  to  know  somethin'.  I  want  to  know  how 
old  you  be?" 

"  Father !  You  know  how  old  I  am.  I'm  nine- 
teen-going-on-twenty . " 

"Yas!  You're  nineteen-going-on-twenty.  You're 
nineteen-goin'-on-twenty !  So  I  been  thinkin'!" 

His  tone  was  ominous.  He  returned  the  plug 
and  knife  to  his  stinking  clothes. 

The  girl  was  terrified  by  her  mother's  absence 
and  that  the  man  was  not  intoxicated  with  the  same 
effect  as  on  other  nights. 

"Yas,  you're  nineteen-goin'-on-twenty,"  continued 
Silent  Wheeler.     "And  I  been  thinkin',  I  tell  you,  — 
I  been  thinkin.'     Tell  me  this  :   What  ye  ever  done 
to  help  earn  your  livin'  or  bring  in  money  to  support 
yourself  or  help  the  family?" 

"But  this  is  home  —  our  home  together.  Does  a 
girl  have  to  earn  money  and  pay  board  at  home?" 

"Don't  it  cost  money  to  support  a  female  o'  your 
size,  at  home?" 

"But  I  can't  work  outside  and  go  to  the  Academy 
at  the  same  time.  And  I  do  so  want  to  go  to  the 
Academy.  I'll  be  finished  in  another  year." 

"  Yas  !  And  who  pays  your  keep  in  the  meantime  ?" 

The  girl  knew  that  to  answer  would  add  fuel  to  the 
fires  of  wrath  smoldering  behind  the  strange  green 
eyes. 

"Tell  me !  "  he  roared  suddenly. 

"I  —  I  —  thought  my  own  stepfather  might  - 


THE   GREATER  GLORY  29 

"That's  it!  That's  it!  Me!  I  thought  so. 
And  why  should  I?  Tell  me  that?  Are  you  my 
daughter?  Are  you?" 

"I'm  your  stepdaughter." 

"  Are  you  my  daughter  ?    Tell  me  that ! " 

"You  married  mother.     Isn't  it  the  same?" 

"I  married  your  mother.  But  it  ain't  the  same. 
You  heard  what  I  said;  it  ain't  the  same.  I  been 
thinkin'." 

"You  never  raised  any  question  before  about  me 
staying  here.  I  haven't  any  other  place  —  to  go." 

"How  about  lookin'  after  yourself?  How  about 
you  makin'  some  place  ?" 

"I  wanted  to  finish  school  first.  I'll  be  better 
equipped  to  — 

"To  what?  You  want  education  to  prance 
'round  before  your  betters,  that's  what  you  want. 
Did  I  have  any  education  ?  Did  your  mother  have 
any  education?  What  right  you  got  to  expect  us 
to  support  you  while  you're  learnin'  education 
so's  to  prance  'round  before  your  betters  ?  Oh,  I 
got  this  all  thought  out.  For  a  long  time  I  been 
turnin'  it  over  in  my  mind.  For  a  long  time  I  been 
thinkin'." 

"You  married  mother;  and  when  you  married  her 
you  knew  she  had  me.  It  isn't  fair  now  to  go  back 
on— : 

"Who's  goin'  back  on  anything?  Don't  give  me 
no  argument.  Don't  try  to  down  me  with  your 
education.  I  won't  be  downed.  I  got  this  thing 
all  thought  out,  I  tell  you.  You  was  little  when  I 
married  your  mother,  —  little  and  helpless.  You 
ain't  little  no  more.  You're  able  to  take  care  o' 
yourself.  Yet  you  don't  make  no  effort  to  take  care 
o'  yourself;  you  just  laze  around  and  wipe  a  few 


30  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

dishes  and  do  a  little  cookin'  and  mend  a  little  clothes 
and  do  a  few  high-flown  chores  like  you  was  some 
grand  breed  o'  duchess ;  and  think  I  ought  to  sup 
port  you  while  you  get  an  education  to  prance 
around  and  shame  your  betters.  I'm  sick  of  it. 
I  stood  it  as  long  as  I'm  agoin'  to  stand  it.  So  I 
—  been  —  thinkin' !" 

He  had  been  thinking,  for  hundreds  of  terrible 
evenings ! 

"Father  !"  she  cried  hysterically. 

"I  don't  mean  I  should  do  it  no  more  !  " 

"Father!" 

"I  don't  intend  to  do  it  no  more.  You  heard 
what  I  said  to-night.  Why  ain't  you  gone  ?" 

"I  didn't  think  you  meant  it.  At  least  not  so 
soon.  Not  at  once,  to-night !  " 

"Didn't  think  I  meant  it!  She  says  —  after  all 
the  thinkin'  I've  done  —  she  didn't  suppose  I  meant 
it !  I  told  you  to  get  out !  I  told  you  to  get  out !  I 
meant  it  when  I  said  get  out.  And  I  come  home  and 
find  you  here.  You  know  what  happens  to  willful 
young  uns  who  disobey  — !  " 

For  a  third  time  she  uttered  the  word  "  Father ! " 
but  this  time  in  a  whisper.  Then  she  tried  to 
scream,  but  no  scream  would  come. 

The  man  was  drunk.     He  was  more  than  drunk,  - 
he  was  mad.     The  lantern  glint  fell  aslant  on  his 
face,  and  the  girl  caught  the  look  in  his  eyes.     They 
were  the  eyes  of  a  person  without  reason. 

She  saw  the  green  light  blaze  up.  She  saw  the 
pupils  dilate.  She  sensed  that  the  worst  had  hap 
pened.  The  silence  eternal  of  the  lonely  New 
England  hillsides,  the  maddening  quiet  of  the 
evenings,  the  lack  of  intercourse  with  people  of 
education  and  breeding,  the  months  and  months  of 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  31 

brooding  before  the  kitchen  stove,  —  all  had  tended 
toward  the  inevitable.  Something  had  snapped  in 
Silent  Wheeler's  brain.  Silent  Wheeler  had  become 
obsessed. 

The  stepfather  reached  into  his  clothes.  From 
around  the  top  of  his  trousers  he  unbuckled  a  heavy 
belt. 

"Don't,  father,  don't!"  It  was  the  voice  of  a 
little  girl  beseeching  an  irate  parent  to  withhold 
punishment  for  some  childish  disobedience.  Yet 
she  was  not  a  little  girl.  She  was  a  woman  grown 
and  a  ghastly  pretty  woman. 

Silent  Wheeler  laughed.  He  had  not  laughed  for 
so  long  and  the  levity  was  so  uncanny  that  it  para 
lyzed  the  daughter  as  much  as  the  deadly  thing  he 
held  in  his  hand.  With  the  laugh  he  reached  over. 
He  closed  his  other  hand  around  a  soft  white  wrist. 

The  slumbering  spring  night  was  suddenly  cut 
by  screams! 


CHAPTER  III 

SLUG  TRUMAN,  MONDAY- WASHING  AND  CARDINAL 
WOLSEY  ENTER  THE  NARRATIVE  AND  START  THEIR 
ROLES  AS  MINOR  HEROES. 

DOWN  Cobb  Hill  came  the  rattle  of  buggy  tires 
in  the  sandy  road.  A  trap  drawn  by  a  little  black 
mare  and  driven  by  a  stocky,  well-dressed  young 
man  reached  the  maples  alongside  the  Wheeler 
house.  The  stocky  young  man  stopped  the  mare 
and  arose  in  the  vehicle.  A  hideous  bulldog  in  the 
seat  with  him  rose  likewise. 

Two  times  more  those  cries  sounded  on  the  sum 
mer  night.  The  young  man  put  a  foot  on  the 
carriage  wheel  and  leaped  over.  The  dog  tried  the 
same  thing  and  had  to  be  extricated.  The  young 
man,  followed  by  the  dog,  approached  the  house. 

"Hey,  you!"  he  called,  "is  anything  especially 
the  matter?" 

For  answer  he  heard  a  thump,  a  crash,  a  curse. 
The  dim  light  that  had  been  burning  in  that  eaves 
room  was  suddenly  extinguished.  There  was  an 
other  thump,  another  crash  —  as  of  furniture  falling. 
He  heard  a  long  cry.  Some  one  came  swiftly  through 
the  lower  rooms.  Then  the  light  screen  door  on  the 
side  porch  flew  open ;  there  came  a  flash  of  white  in 
the  moonlight  and  across  the  lawn  toward  him  ran  a 
girl. 

"What's  it  all  about?"  the  young  man  de 
manded. 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  33 

For  he  had  suddenly  discovered  himself  with  a 
protecting  arm  about  this  girl  —  a  girl  whose 
shoulders  and  body  were  enveloped  in  a  heavy  quilt 
and  whose  hair  fell  wildly  about  her  face. 

"Where  can  I  go  ?  —  What  can  I  do ?"  she  sobbed. 

At  the  moment  the  heavy  footfalls  of  Silent 
Wheeler  sounded  through  the  lower  rooms,  and  a 
bruised  and  disheveled  man  appeared  on  the  rear 
porch.  He  started  across. 

"Wait  a  moment!  Stop!"  ordered  the  young 
stranger.  "What's  the  meaning  of  all  this,  any 
how?  Can't  I  ask  a  civil  question  and  get  a  civil 
answer?  " 

"He  struck  me  —  with  his  belt  —  he  struck  me  !  " 
sobbed  the  girl. 

"What  for?" 

"He  told  me  to  leave  and  go  away.  I  didn't 
think  he  meant  to-night.  I  was  here  when  he  came 
from  McDermott's.  And  he  struck  me  —  with  his 
belt ! " 

The  heavy  quilt  slipped  from  her  grasp.  The 
moonlight  disclosed  the  white  flesh  of  her  arms  and 
shoulders.  For  a  moment  the  young  man  gaped 
blankly. 

"Cripes!"  he  ejaculated.  "Gripes!"  Then  he 
turned  on  the  stepfather.  "I'm  Slug  Truman,  I  am  ! 
They  call  me  that  in  Paris  because  I  got  a  hundred- 
and-seventy-pound  punch  —  I  have.  And  if  I  hit 
you  with  the  whole  hundred  and  seventy,  I  might 
bust  you  right  open.  What's  coming  off  here,  any 
how  ?  What's  the  row  ?  " 

"Strangers  ain't  wanted  in  this!"  growled  Silent 
Wheeler  angrily. 

"Maybe  they  ain't.  Then  I'll  be  the  little  old 
unwelcome  guest.  What's  the  matter  with  you, 


34  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

Si  Wheeler?  You  talk  as  if  you'd  gone  plumb 
looney ! " 

"  Strangers  ain't  wanted  in  this  ! "  declared  Wheeler 
again. 

"But  they  ain't  goin'  to  stand  aside  and  see  no 
women  folks  beat  up  !  " 

"You  keep  out !  "  warned  the  stepfather. 

The  girl  uttered  a  little  cry.  She  fancied  she  could 
see  his  strange  eyes  —  green  eyes  —  glowing  and 
smouldering  in  the  moonlight. 

"Keep  out  nothin' !  You  keep  off  !  Keep  off  — 
or  seem'  that  just  this  minute  I  got  this  lady  to  sort 
o'  keep  standin'  up,  I  might  call  in  this  dog  to  help 
me,  don't  you  know  !  " 

"To  hell  with  your  dog !  " 

"Don't  say  that.  He  ain't  used  to  bein'  spoke 
unkindly  of.  " 

But  the  man  started  forward.  He  made  a  lurch 
at  the  girl.  The  dog  growled.  The  young  stranger 
tried  to  get  himself  between  man  and  girl.  Wheeler's 
onslaught  made  him  stumble. 

"Sic  'em,  Card !"  the  boy  cried.  "  Help  a  feller 
out  that's  got  a  armful !  " 

The  scruff  of  the  dog's  back  arose.  He  ran  around 
and  around  the  group  a  couple  of  times,  growling  low 
and  ominously.  The  man  hit  at  the  boy.  The  blow 
infuriated  the  animal.  His  jowls  slobbered  with 
sudden  rage.  He  sprang.  His  teeth  snapped. 

In  the  next  three  minutes  that  yard  witnessed  a 
tragedy. 

"Gripes!"  Slug  defended  himself,  "I  had  to  ask 
Card  to  help  me  out,  didn't  I  ?  I  couldn't  bust  him 
with  my  arms  full  o'  girl  and  bed  quilt.  What  good 
is  a  dog,  anyhow  —  unless  he  rises  to  a  emergency  ?" 

He  led  the  fainting  girl  to  an  old  berry  crate  that 


THE   GREATER  GLORY  35 

helped  clutter  the  yard  and  started  in  to  disengage 
the  powerful  brute  who  was  doing  such  terrible 
execution. 

Silent  Wheeler  dragged  himself  back  to  the 
porch  on  hands  and  knees,  where  he  collapsed  and 
rolled  down  the  steps.  The  dog  who  had  tasted 
blood  had  to  be  kicked,  cuffed  and  beaten  into  sub 
mission.  Then  Slug  lifted  him  bodily,  carried  him 
to  the  buggy  and  tied  him  to  the  fancy  iron  un 
der  the  seat  in  the  rear.  There  the  dog  licked  his 
wounds  where  the  man  had  clawed  him  and  growled 
continually  while  the  scruff  of  his  coat  settled. 

"Are  you  hurt,  Miss  ?"  Slug  asked  the  girl. 

"No!  That  is  —  not  much.  It  isn't  me  I'm 
thinking  of  —  it's  mother.  Oh,  what's  become  of 
her?" 

"As  I  was  drivin'  over  the  top  of  the  hill  about 
five  minutes  ago  I  see  a  woman  runnin'  in  the  moon 
light  across  the  south  mowin'.  I  thought  it  was 
queer.  You  don't  suppose  it  was  her,  do  you  ?" 

"Then  she  started  for  help  to  the  Osgood's.  It's 
the  nearest  way  —  across  the  south  mowing." 

"Whatter  you  want  to  do?  You  can't  stay  here 
like  this  i" 

"I  don't  know.  I  could  wait  till  the  Osgood 
boys  come." 

"You  better  let  me  take  you  to  the  Osgood's  —  if 
you  mean  the  Henry  Osgoods.  You  can't  go  back 
in  the  house  to-night.  Besides,  I  don't  know  how 
bad  Card's  chewed  the  old  man  up.  Sheriff  Crum- 
pett  ought  to  be  called  right  away  quick." 

She  let  him  lead  her  to  the  buggy.  He  helped  her 
in.  She  tucked  the  heavy  quilt  about  her  and  he 
added  a  blanket.  He  got  in  over  the  opposite  wheel, 
picked  up  the  reins  and  pulled  the  beribboned  whip 


36 

from  its  socket.  The  little  mare  was  lashed  into  a 
wild  gallop,  and  the  rig  careened  off  through  the  night. 

It  was  four  miles  by  the  road  to  the  Osgood's. 
Young  Truman  guided  the  foaming  little  mare  into 
the  Osgood's  front  yard  and  halted  close  to  the  steps, 
where  she  quivered  and  champed  at  the  bit.  The 
old  Osgood  house  was  dark  and  silent.  Evidently 
the  mother  had  not  arrived,  or  lights  would  have 
been  burning.  Slug  vaulted  over  the  wheel,  alighted 
on  the  piazza  and  hammered  at  the  door  with  the 
butt  of  his  whip. 

The  minutes  ticked  past.  They  waited.  Slug 
hammered  again.  But  though  the  noise  he  made 
sounded  through  the  house  like  the  summons  of  an 
enemy  of  invasion,  no  sign  of  life  appeared  within. 
A  big  black  cat  came  around  the  corner.  It  leaped 
up  the  front  steps,  purring  and  mewing.  It  rubbed 
against  Truman's  ankles. 

"Looks  as  if  they  ain't  home,"  he  announced. 

Again  and  again  he  pounded.  He  went  around  to 
the  side  doors  and  made  a  similar  racket.  He  called 
to  the  upper  windows  from  the  front  yard. 

"There  ain't  a  window  open  anywhere,"  he 
announced.  "They  wouldn't  sleep  on  a  warm 
night  like  this  with  all  their  windows  shut.  Do  you 
want  me  to  take  you  back  —  or  anywhere  ?" 

He  drove  her  back.  A  half  hour  later  they  turned 
into  the8  Wheeler  yard. 

Silent  Wheeler  was  gone  from  the  porch  steps. 

Leaving  the  girl  in  the  rig  and  prepared  for  trouble, 
the  boy  alighted  and  called  through  the  darkened 
kitchen  door.  But  he  received  no  reply. 

He  found  matches  in  one  of  his  pockets.  He  broke 
one  from  the  card,  waited  until  it  had  burned  up 
and  then  went  boldly  inside.  The  girl  saw  the 


THE   GREATER  GLORY  37 

reflection  of  the  flame  travel  through  the  lower  rooms. 
In  a  minute  he  was  back. 

"There  ain't  any  one  here  at  all,  Miss  Wheeler. 
Your  Ma  is  probably  still  off  looking  for  help.  Your 
dad  has  probably  - 

" —  gone  down  to  McDermott's  once  more.  And 
my  name  isn't  Wheeler  —  it's  Wood  —  Mary  Wood." 

"What  do  you  want  to  do ?" 

As  he  waited  for  her  to  decide,  he  suddenly  raised 
his  head  and  listened. 

"What's  that?"  he  demanded  sharply. 

The  girl  listened  likewise.  Then  her  delicate  lips 
grew  hard. 

"That's  only  Artie.  He's  my  stepbrother.  He's 
probably  in  his  upstairs  room." 

Slug  had  heard  of  Silent  Wheeler's  crazy  son.  He 
did  not  refer  to  him  again. 

"You  can't  stay  here,"  the  Truman  boy  declared. 
"Your  stepfather  might  come  back  and  try  to  pull  off 
more  fireworks.  You  ought  to  go  somewhere's  and 
wait  for  morning.  And  I  ought  to  go  get  Sheriff 
Crumpett.  Old  Wheeler  belongs  in  jail  after  a  night 
of  this.  You  women  folks  can't  trust  yourselves  to 
him  again." 

"I  haven't  any  place  I  could  go  !  "  the  girl  broke 
down.  "Not  unless  it  was  to  one  of  the  neighbors. 
And  there  aren't  any  besides  the  Osgoods  that  we 
know  real  well."  • 

Slug  came  across  to  the  rig.  He  stood  by  the  rail 
looking  up  into  the  pretty  features. 

"Did  he  hurt  you ?"  he  asked  gently. 

"Not much!" 

"I  ought  to  have  left  Card  have  him." 

"The  dog  would  have  killed  him." 

"It  would  have  served  him  right.     It  was  lucky 


38  THE   GREATER  GLORY 

I  come  along.  I  was  just  coming  back  from  the  dance 
to  Gilbert  Mills." 

It  was  an  inappropriate  time  for  him  to  thrust  him 
self  into  the  situation  with  personal  explanation. 
Beyond  this  brief  declaration  he  said  nothing.  Only  : 
"If  you  could  get  your  things,  I'd  be  glad  to  take  you 
down  to  Paris  —  or  somewheres.  And  you  could 
leave  a  note  for  your  mother,  tellin'  her  you  was  all 
right  and  lettin'  her  know  the  place  you'd  gone. 
That  is  —  if  you  want  to  go  right  now." 

The  girl  sat  thinking  for  a  time. 

"It's  a  good  time  for  me  to  go,"  she  said  patheti 
cally  at  last.  "Mother  will  —  come  back  all  right  — 
and  if  she  finds  my  note,  it  will  be  better  than  a  sad 
parting  —  bidding  me  good-by.  I'll  go  quickly  now 
-  if  you'll  just  take  me  to  Paris." 

The  girl  swayed  as  he  helped  her  to  the  ground. 
She  went  inside.  He  sat  down  on  the  porch  steps  to 
guard  her  from  further  harm  —  and  he  waited. 

At  the  end  of  half  an  hour  she  reappeared.  She 
was  dressed  in  a  plain  brown  dress,  a  hat  with  a  long 
black  feather.  She  carried  an  old-fashioned  tele 
scope  bag. 

"I  couldn't  stay  here  another  hour  after  this  has 
happened,"  she  said.  "  I've  made  trouble  enough 
here.  If  you'll  take  me  to  Paris  and  I  can  fix  it  so  to 
get  work  to-morrow,  I'll  pay  you  back  for  your 
trouble  and  transportation.  You're  Herbert  Tru 
man,  aren't  you  ?  I've  heard  the  girls  at  the  Foxboro 
Center  Academy  speak  of  you." 

"Yes,"  he  replied. 

He  assisted  her  into  the  buggy  again.  He  thumped 
the  big  dog  to  make  him  lie  over  and  give  room  for 
the  telescope  bag.  Then  he  climbed  in  beside  the 
girl  and  unwound  the  reins  from  the  whip. 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  39 

"How  about  the  note  for  your  mother  ? "  he  asked. 

"I  wrote  one.  I  left  it  pinned  to  the  tablecloth  in 
the  dining  room.  I  said  I'd  gone  to  Paris  to  get  work 
and  as  soon  as  I'd  got  a  place,  I'd  send  and  get  her. " 

Slug  said  little  more  until  they  were  nearly  down  to 
the  Marshall-pond  bottoms. 

"I  think  you  could  get  a  job  in  the  Telegraph 
office,"  said  he.  "I  was  looking  over  last  night's 
paper  to  see  who'd  advertised  to  get  work  in  the 
shop  —  Dad's  shop  —  and  I  remember  that  Sam 
Hod  and  his  partner  wanted  a  couple  of  girls  to  learn 
typesetting.  Think  you  would  like  typesetting  ?  " 

"I'd  like  anything,"  the  girl  said  desperately, 
"that  would  save  me  from  going  back.  You're  very 
kind." 

"Helping  the  ladies  is  my  specialty,"  Slug  de 
clared.  Then,  sensing  that  his  rejoinder  had  fallen 
exceedingly  flat,  he  struck  the  little  mare  sharply 
with  the  reins  and  they  rumbled  through  the  covered 
bridge  by  Patterson's  sawmill. 

"Her  name's  Monday-Washin',"  said  Slug  off 
handedly.  He  meant  the  mare.  But  little  Mary 
Wood  was  thinking  about  something  else  than  the 
name  applied  to  the  horse. 


CHAPTER  IV 

MARY  WOOD  "ACCEPTS  A  POSITION"  IN  OUR  GRIMY 
NEWSPAPER  OFFICE  AT  WHICH  THE  TOWN  is 
APPROPRIATELY  HORRIFIED  AND  OSTRACIZES  THE 
WOOD  GIRL  SOCIALLY. 

"THERE'S  a  girl  in  the  office  wants  a  job!"  an 
nounced  Mr.  Nimrod  Briggs,  compositor,  returning 
to  the  back  room  with  his  fingers  full  of  proofs. 

I  went  into  the  front  office.  A  girl  in  pitifully 
plain  clothing  and  a  pale,  pretty  face  stood  on  the 
other  side  of  the  battered  counter. 

It  was  my  first  view  of  Mary  Wood.  Many  years 
have  passed  since  that  far-off  spring  forenoon.  I 
have  seen  Mary  in  many  different  places,  under  many 
cruel  circumstances,  resolutely  facing  many  hard 
situations  in  life,  mostly  with  a  smile  on  her  face. 
But  as  I  saw  her  in  that  office  that  morning,  she 
was  the  Mary  Wood  I  have  liked  best  to  remem 
ber  —  before  care  and  anxiety  and  struggle  came 
to  her  —  before  love  had  levied  its  price,  taken  its 
pound  of  flesh  from  her  heart  and  the  soft  bloom 
from  her  features  —  before  disappointment  and  cruel 
suffering  and  noble  effort  had  changed  her  from  that 
gentle-faced  blushing  girl,  surprised  in  the  presence 
of  strangers,  into  the  typical  American  wife  and 
mother. 

And  I  remember  Mary  Wood  that  day,  not  so 
much  for  the  soft  brown  hair  parted  on  the  fair  high 
forehead,  nor  the  lines  of  her  graceful  figure  nor  the 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  41 

sweet,  patient,  frightened  look  deep  in  her  dark 
eyes,  but  for  the  graceful  way  in  which  she  came  over 
and  begged  for  work  and  the  chance  to  earn  a  living 
for  herself. 

She  got  it ! 

Mary  went  to  work  for  us  immediately,  "learn 
ing  the  case." 

Sam  got  her  a  boarding  place  with  one  Mrs. 
Mathers,  a  widowed  lady,  who  ran  a  boarding 
house  on  School  Street. 

The  first  few  days  slipped  away;  by  Saturday 
she  could  get  up  a  fairly  sizable  string  of  locals. 

And  she  tried  to  "find  herself"  in  our  community. 

It  was  something  of  a  novelty  in  those  days  for 
women  to  be  employed  in  printing  offices.  Our 
newspapers  of  those  years  were  produced  by  journey 
men  printers,  popularly  known  as  "tramps." 
They  were  strange,  lovable  souls,  more  or  less  out  of 
plumb  with  the  world  around  them,  who  drifted  from 
place  to  place,  staying  only  long  enough  to  earn  the 
wherewithal  to  finance  them  further  in  their  wander 
lust.  Most  of  them  drank  to  excess.  They  could 
thoroughly  be  relied  upon  to  demand  employment 
when  there  was  no  more  work  than  the  regular  staff 
could  handle  and  with  equal  faithfulness  they  lay 
down  on  the  job  or  moved  onward  just  when  work 
was  burying  the  office  and  they  were  needed  most. 

It  occasioned  some  talk  in  the  village  therefore 
when  Sam  Hod  departed  from  the  traditions  of  the 
profession  and  sought  local  girls  to  do  his  typesetting 
as  being  dependable,  all-the-year-round  work  folk. 
This  talk  was  revived  when  it  became  known  that 
the  Wood  girl,  after  a  humiliating  experience  with 


42  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

a  drunken  stepfather  at  their  lonely  farmhouse  on 
the  Cobb  Hill  road,  had  secured  a  place  and  intended 
to  pay  her  own  way  and  care  for  herself  by  taking 
employment  in  the  local  newspaper  office. 

It  was  regarded  as  a  rather  radical  procedure  for 
her  to  take  her  place  at  the  case  alongside  the 
flotsam  and  jetsam  of  human  life  who  commonly 
lived  off  printing  offices  —  and  rub  shoulders  with 
them  in  the  day's  work.  Conservative  parents 
commented  dubiously  on  the  idea  of  a  "nice" 
young  lady  overhearing  the  lumberous  and  ofttimes 
highly-hued  talk  circulating  among  employees  of  a 
printing  establishment  and  taking  up  with  the  grimy, 
monotonous,  back-room  life  which  in  those  days  was 
typical  of  newspaper  offices  the  nation  over.  And 
as  conservative  fathers  and  mothers  of  "nice" 
daughters  frequently  discussed  it  when  Mary  Wood 
passed  by,  it  followed  that  those  "nice"  daughters 
gradually  came  to  acquire  the  same  ideas  and  rated 
Mary  accordingly. 

It  was  a  hard  place  in  which  to  put  the  girl, 
the  more  so  because  she  could  not  understand  what 
lay  at  the  bottom  of  the  snubs  and  jellybean  social 
ostracisms  which  occurred  during  that  following 
autumn  and  winter. 

She  supposed  —  poor  girl  —  that  the  lack  of 
interest  taken  in  her,  the  lack  of  companionship 
on  the  part  of  other  girls  about  the  village,  the  failure 
to  receive  invitations  to  parties  and  dances  and 
village  functions  given  by  the  younger  set  was  due  to 
the  unsavory  reputation  which  Silent  Wheeler  had 
in  the  community,  that  she  was  his  stepdaughter  and 
a  girl  who  had  come  from  "nobodies." 

She  laid  it  to  her  family;  the  fact  that  she  had 
come  from  the  inconsequential  hamlet  of  North 


THE   GREATER  GLORY  43 

Foxboro ;  that  she  could  not  afford  to  dress  as  some 
of  the  other  village  girls  dressed  and  therefore 
offended  those  in  a  place  to  offer  her  social  favors,  — 
anything  and  everything  but  the  truth. 

It  was  a  thoughtless  and  cruel  little  small-town 
snobbery.  Happily  the  days  of  such  provincialism 
are  over.  But  the  fact  remains  that  Mary  was  not 
fortunate  enough  to  "get  in"  with  the  "right 
people."  She  did  her  work  in  the  daytime  faith 
fully  and  satisfactorily.  But  when  six  o'clock 
came  and  the  labor  was  done  until  another  morning, 
she  went  alone  to  the  cheap  room  at  the  top  of  Mrs. 
Mathers'  boarding  house  and  spent  her  evenings  by 
herself. 

Once  or  twice  the  men  in  the  office  made  advances 
to  her ;  tried  to  take  her  out  and  show  her  attention. 
But  they  were  coarse,  rough  printer-folk,  here  to 
day  and  gone  to-morrow.  She  judged  them  in 
tuitively  at  their  true  value  and  gave  them  no  en 
couragement. 

Yet  the  talk  which  her  employment  in  the  office 
occasioned  among  the  "best"  people  was  not  match- 
flare  alongside  the  commotion  caused  in  the  "back 
room"  of  our  establishment  to  have  a  girl  of  Mary 
Woods'  dainty  personality  working  side  by  side 
with  our  men,  appealing  to  them  with  her  questions 
and  trade  perplexities,  tickling  their  rough-shaven 
cheeks  unintentionally  with  the  truant  strands  of 
her  fine-spun  hair  as  she  bent  with  them  over  the 
forms,  getting  little  daubs  of  ink  or  type-case  grime 
on  her  features  and  only  making  them  the  prettier. 

If  the  town  people  could  only  have  known,  her 
presence  in  the  office  made  a  different  place  of  the 
cluttered  old  room.  It  produced  also  startling 
changes  in  the  moral  tone  of  the  establishment. 


4-i  THE   GREATER  GLORY 

Old  "Daddy  Joe",  the  ad-man,  stopped  spitting 
tobacco  juice  on  the  floor  and  grinding  it  in  with  his 
boot.  "Skinny  Napoleon"  Higgins,  a  lugubrious 
soul  of  exceeding  thinness  who  had  once  been  jilted 
by  a  widow,  ceased  his  morbid  recreation  of  setting 
up  his  own  obituary  in  different  styles  and  leaving 
it  around  on  galleys  which  we  always  wanted  in  a 
hurry,  he  stopped  sending  out  every  afternoon  for  a 
pail  of  beer,  he  shaved  three  times  a  week  and  de 
clared  that  swearing  had  to  stop  in  that  office,  by 
Gawd,  or  he'd  see  to  it  that  somebody  had  hell 
knocked  out  of  'em.  The  one-eyed  boy  whose 
given  name  was  Lawrence  BriggsHanchett,  but  whom 
we  called  "Slob"  because  of  his  propensity  to  cover 
everything  in  the  place  but  the  payroll  with  ink 
whenever  he  filled  the  press  fountains,  ceased  re 
moving  his  glass  eye  and  rolling  it  around  the 
stove  because  it  horrified  the  girls,  and  Mr.  Nimrod 
Briggs  who  helped  with  the  ads  and  tended  press, 
buttoned  his  vest  for  the  first  time  in  years;  he 
changed  his  shirt  as  often  as  twice  a  month  and 
showed  up  for  work  so  regularly  on  Monday  morn 
ings  that  the  proprietors  of  the  Daily  Telegraph  — 
noting  that  these  changes  had  begun  with  the 
advent  of  the  pretty  little  compositor  —  rose  up 
and  called  her  blessed. 

There  were  three  other  girls  in  the  office :  Annie 
Seavers  was  the  senior  of  these  in  point  of  employ 
ment  —  a  big  horse  of  a  female  with  sloppy  heels, 
receding  chin  and  three  rolls  of  fat  on  her  neck  under 
washed-out  brown  hair  which  would  never  stay 
combed.  Annie  "ran"  with  the  River  Street 
crowd,  which  was  decidedly  not  a  crowd  for  Mary  at 
all,  keeping  up  the  traditions  and  popular  concep 
tion  of  females  who  would  work  in  printing  offices. 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  45 

Susie  Whitcomb  was  the  second;  a  conscientious 
little  soul  in  gold  spectacles  which  she  wore  half-way 
down  a  very  freckled  nose.  But  she  was  a  slow- 
witted  girl  who  lacked  imagination,  —  always 
scented  with  cheap  perfumery  and  clothed  in  home 
made  dresses  with  coarse  stitches  which  were  always 
parting  somewhere  about  her  anatomy. 

The  third  girl  —  Mabel  Henderson,  more  famil 
iarly  known  as  "Mibb"  -was  a  black-eyed,  in 
dependent  young  spitfire  whose  mother  ran  the  mill 
boarding  house  at  the  east  end  of  town.  Mibb  spent 
most  of  her  wages  on  caramels  and  clothes  and  was 
always  talking  over  the  type  cases  about  her  "gentle 
men  friends."  Her  father  was  a  poor,  overgrown, 
inconsequential  soul  who  toiled  not,  neither  did  he 
spin,  and  who  spent  his  days  sitting  around  in 
grocery  stores  or  blacksmith  shops  keeping  folks 
informed  about  the  progress  of  his  old  army  trouble. 

Between  a  mother  with  a  caustic  temper  who  was 
forever  "telling  the  world"  how  she  had  thrown 
herself  away  marrying  old  Harvey  Henderson,  and 
a  father  who  dined  in  the  kitchen  from  scraps  the 
boarders  left  —  Mibb  had  grown  up  with  rather 
unique  ideas  about  the  matrimonial  relation. 

"Harvey's  wife  is  a  sort  o'  female  battleship," 
quoth  Uncle  Joe  Fodder,  the  town  philosopher  who 
ran  the  livery  stable  behind  the  Whitney  House  on 
Main  Street,  "and  Harvey  always  reminds  me  of 
two  or  three  hours  o'  July  afternoon.  And  when 
you  get  a  battleship  married  to  two  or  three  hours 
o'  July  afternoon,  it  ain't  reasonable  to  expect  that 
the  offspring's  goin'  to  recite  any  phenomenal 
number  o'  scripture  verses  at  a  Sunday-school  enter 
tainment.  Some  young  folks  know  a  lot  about 
marriage  by  missin'  it  to  home.  Show  me  a  home 


46  THE  GREATER  GLORY 

where  the  mother  runs  the  bank  account,  and  I'll 
show  ye  a  bunch  o'  kids  who  usually  don't  rise  up 
and  give  the  old  man  a  chair  when  he  hoofs  it  in  ! " 

This  was  the  general  attitude  of  the  village  toward 
the  Hendersons.  And  yet  there  was  one  redeeming 
feature  about  the  Henderson  girl,  because  of  which 
the  village  made  due  allowance  for  her  "freshness." 
By  one  of  those  strange  pranks  which  Nature  often 
plays  in  a  small  town,  the  girl  could  sing. 

Sing  ? 

She  had  a  contralto  voice  that  Uncle  Joe  further 
remarked  was  "liquid  glory"  given  her  "to  soothe 
the  savage  beast"  —  probably  referring  to  "her 
old  woman",  —  a  beautiful  voice  that  needed  only 
training  to  make  Mibb  a  prodigy.  But  it  had  not 
been  trained  for  two  reasons.  Ma  Henderson  had 
no  goods  of  this  world  to  waste  on  such  foolishness ; 
and  Mibb  wouldn't  have  put  the  time  into  training 
if  she  had. 

The  girl  sang  at  singing  schools,  parties,  small 
town  entertainments.  She  abused  her  gift  with  all 
the  abandon  of  the  irreverent  child  of  such  parents, 
and  used  it  only  to  create  merriment  for  her  asso 
ciates  with  the  popular  songs  and  ballads  of  the 
period. 

Neither  with  the  Henderson  girl,  therefore,  did 
Mary  find  much  temperamental  compatibility. 

Many  is  the  night  that  we  elder  folk  in  the  front 
office,  sensing  the  trouble  but  not  knowing  exactly 
how  to  go  about  applying  a  remedy,  encountered 
Mary  walking  about  the  streets  of  Paris,  with  a 
little  feeling  of  sorrow  and  sympathy. 

Somehow  she  just  didn't  fit  in  with  the  various 
phases  of  the  town's  social  life.  She  was  too  good 
for  the  workaday  crowd  in  the  shops  and  factories 


THE  GREATER  GLORY  47 

of  Paris  as  well  as  her  fellow-employes  in  the  me 
chanical  department;  and  the  balance  of  our 
people  considered  her  beneath  them  and  gave  her 
small  opportunity  to  convince  them  how  thoughtless 
and  wrong  they  were. 

At  first  we  had  supposed  that  her  mother  was 
coming  in  off  the  farm  to  live  with  her ;  that  indeed, 
would  have  been  a  happy  solution  to  her  lone 
liness.  But  the  helpless  idiot  to  whom  she  had  given 
birth  and  who  spent  his  days  in  a  bare  room  on  the 
second  floor  of  the  Wheeler  house  would  have  perished 
without  her.  While  such  an  event  might  have  been 
a  mercy,  mother-love  held  her  to  the  unspeakable 
sacrifice.  With  Mary  out  of  the  way,  temporarily 
the  husband's  personal  abuse  ceased. 

Mrs.  Wheeler  said  she  guessed  that  after  what 
she'd  stood  she  could  stand  it  a  little  longer,  so  long 
as  it  didn't  get  any  worse.  Besides,  she  didn't 
propose  to  go  to  no  Paris  and  live  on  the  slender 
wages  of  no  daughter,  not  while  she  had  the  breath 
o'  life  in  her  body  to  look  out  for  herself  and  she 
calculated  she  had.  If  Mary  couldn't  finish  her 
schoolin'  —  if  she  had  to  go  to  work  and  take  care 
of  herself  —  she  needed  all  the  money  she  earned 
to  buy  herself  clothes  and  pretty  things  and  fit 
herself  to  attract  "the  right  sort"  in  the  matter  of  a 
husband. 

It  is  not  correct  in  this  chapter  of  introduction  of 
Mary  to  Paris  to  say  that  in  the  first  lonely  summer 
and  autumn  she  was  wholly  ignored  by  the  thought 
less  boys  and  girls  that  made  up  our  community's 
younger  set.  The  night  of  the  lawn  party  at 
Calvary  Methodist  church  there  was  one  young 
man  who  remembered  her  and  asked  her  to  go  with 
him. 


48  THE   GREATER  GLORY 

Poor  "Slug"  Truman!  With  all  his  faults  and 
indiscretions  he  was  a  good-hearted  boy  and  meant 
well.  He  too  had  been  unfortunate  in  the  choice 
of  parents. 

His  father  was  old  "Short -Cramp"  Truman,  so 
called  because  in  an  overgrown  blacksmith  shop 
down  on  River  Street  he  "manufactured"  a  farm 
wagon  of  his  own  design  with  exceptionally  small 
front  wheels  which  gave  his  product  a  sale  and 
tuppence  worth  of  fame  for  its  unique  short  turning 
qualities :  also  because,  being  a  first-class  mortgage 
forecloser  and  plate-passer,  he  was  not  above  cramp 
ing  unfortunates  whenever  he  had  the  opportunity 
to  execute  such  a  maneuver  to  his  financial  ad 
vantage. 

Herb's  mother  was  a  weak-eyed,  whimpering- 
voiced,  flat-faced  woman  with  a  hand  like  a  damp 
dishcloth  who  never  expressed  an  opinion  in  her 
life  and  spent  her  days  following  around  and  setting 
off  a  rather  flashy  and  forward  daughter,  who  made 
all  decisions  and  saw  that  they  were  carried  out. 

Herb  was  a  decent  sort  of  chap  and  rather  easy 
going,  and  a  natural  sense  of  humor  prevented  him 
from  reaching  the  extremes  which  finally  landed 
Esmeralda  Truman  in  the  divorce  court  and  a  sana 
torium.  Old  Short-Cramp  might  have  been  a 
leech  and  a  sharper  in  business  but  he  had  lost 
a  baby  son  the  year  before  Herb  came  along  and 
that  made  him  partial  and  strangely  indulgent  to  the 
offspring  —  particularly  the  male  offspring  —  that 
had  survived.  Herb  had  all  the  money  he  wanted, 
but  he  spent  it  harmlessly  though  ofttimes  foolishly, 
—  on  horses  and  dogs  and  the  village  belles,  — 
whereas  Esmeralda  squandered  hers  viciously  and 
lived  to  rue  the  day  she  was  born. 


THE  GREATER  GLORY  49 

Long  before  he  had  graduated  from  high  school 
Herb  had  been  a  familiar  sight  on  the  streets  of 
Paris  with  his  little  black  mare,  Monday- Washing, 
and  his  hideous  big  English  bull  with  the  equally 
incongruous  title  of  Cardinal  Wolsey.  Herb  stood 
six  feet  in  his  stockings  and  weighed  two  hundred 
pounds.  He  had  the  most  tremendous  cowlick  in 
Paris,  which  Uncle  Joe  Fodder  declared  "had  used 
up  all  the  rest  of  the  hair  the  Lord  had  left  after  he'd 
finished  thatchin'  the  rest  of  mankind,"  which  was 
a  marvelous  creation  and  immediately  he  removed  his 
hat  arose  like  a  congregation  of  Sioux  war  feathers 
with  a  strong  wind  perpetually  blowing  from  be 
hind.  When  Amos  Tempi  eton,  one  of  the  barbers 
at  Jim  Stiles's  barber  shop  went  crazy  one  night  and 
nearly  scalped  Doctor  Johnson  in  the  chair,  the 
village  declared  his  mental  aberration  was  due  to 
the  struggle  a  few  minutes  before  with  Herb's  c^" 
lick  in  which  he  had  been  ignominiously  defeated  and 
brought  down  to  the  dust. 

Old  Short-Cramp's  wealth  was  popularly  assumed 
to  be  written  in  six  figures ;  he  was  a  sufferer  from 
acute  Bright's  disease;  when  he  passed  on  Herb 
would  get  most  of  his  money.  r-iierefore  was  Herb 
popular  among  the  unmarried  girls  of  the  village 
and  parents  who  winked  an  eye  at  the  boy's  pro 
clivities  for  cigarettes,  neat  ankles  and  trim  horses. 

It  was  Herb  who  did  not  forget  the  little  girl  with 
the  wistful  brown  eyes  whom  he  had  felt  for  one 
brief  instant  seeking  protection  within  the  hollow 
of  his  arm,  and  he  intercepted  her  at  the  door  of  the 
boarding  house  one  September  night  with  some 
mummery  about  having  "two  tickets  give  him" 
for  the  "ice-cream  splurge"  that  he  was  unsuccessful 
in  disposing  of  although  he  had  proffered  them 


50  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

gratis  far  and  wide.  Would  she  help  him  make  use 
of  'em  as  it  was  a  pity  they  should  go  to  waste  and 
the  Calvary  Methodist  ladies  be  profiters  by  an 
unearned  thirty  cents? 

And  Mary,  with  the  color  coming  and  going  in  her 
face  because  it  was  her  first  invitation  "out"  —  as 
she  wrote  to  her  mother  —  had  "thanked  him  ever 
so  much"  and  said  she  would  be  pleased  to  assist 
him  in  making  the  Methodist  ladies  give  full  value 
for  cash  received.  So  she  washed  and  ironed  and 
strung  with  baby  ribbon  a  poor  cheap  little  muslin 
dress  made  by  the  woman  with  terribly  reddened 
hands  and  on  that  memorable  Thursday  night 
"accompanied"  Herb  to  the  sociable. 

Adam  McQuarry,  janitor  of  the  Calvary  Metho 
dist  church,  was  a  simple  creature  with  big  ears  and 
bigger  feet  who  couldn't  see  why  folks  couldn't 
hold  their  lawn  parties  indoors  and  minimize  the 
destruction  to  church  property  attending  the  re 
moval  of  church  furniture  to  the  open  air  for  social 
purposes,  to  say  nothing  of  sr.ving  his  velvet  lawn. 

During  the  afternoon  Adam  had  stretched  a  wire 
from  tree  to  tree  in  front  of  the  church  while  little 
Mrs.  Pratt  followed  him  anxiously  about  and  steadied 
his  stepladder  under  the  conviction  that  Adam  turned 
loose  unattended  on  a  church  lawn  with  a  wild  and 
rambunctious  stepladder  would  surely  break  his 
neck  and  cast  a  shadow  over  the  function. 

At  six  o'clock  the  church  lawn  was  bobbing  with 
bulbous  decorations  of  weird  shape  and  gala  hue ; 
tables,  chairs  and  vestry  crockery  had  been  spilled 
out  onto  the  green,  amid  which  a  dozen  ladies  in 
"white  things"  starched  as  stiff  as  their  religion, 
were  effecting  some  kind  of  order  and  utility.  The 
Sunday-school  piano  had  been  brought  out  by  the 


THE  GREATER  GLORY  51 

combined  effort  of  Adam,  a  passing  grocer's  boy,  and 
"Doctor"  Dodd  the  minister,  all  of  them  morally 
assisted  by  the  ladies,  without  knocking  the  varnish 
off  more  than  four  corners  of  that  melodious  piece 
of  machinery  or  lowering  it  unexpectedly  on  more 
than  two  of  Adam  McQuarry's  feet. 

The  ice-cream  freezers  were  lined  along  the  eastern 
wall  of  the  church  behind  an  improvised  plank  table 
and  looked  like  huge  moist  shells  waiting  to  be  ex 
ploded  on  the  social  battlefield. 

The  entire  neighborhood,  Protestant,  Catholic, 
Jew  or  pagan,  had  loaned  something  to  the  execu 
tive  committee  which  it  was  positive  it  was  never 
to  see  again,  for  the  way  things  get  lost  or  mixed  up 
or  carried  off  at  these  lawn-party  and  church  affairs 
was  a  caution. 

At  seven  o'clock  the  artists  who  were  to  furnish 
the  evening's  literary  and  musical  entertainment 
had  arrived  and  were  tinkling  at  the  piano  or  running 
over  scales  or  thumping  stringed  instruments  or 
wildly  dispatching  reluctant  messengers  for  music 
which  had  been  forgotten. 

At  seven-thirty  the  church  people  began  to  arrive 
in  knots  of  twos  and  threes  and  fives,  the  men  dressed 
with  the  painful  laboriousness  of  horny-handed  sons 
of  toil  and  the  women  indicating  the  five-dollars' 
worth  of  fuss  through  which  they  had  gone  to  be 
present  and  consume  ten  cents'  worth  of  ice  cream. 

At  eight  o'clock  Adam  got  loose  with  his  stepladder 
and  lighted  all  the  bobbing,  bulbous  Japanese 
lanterns,  and  so  long  as  Mrs.  Pratt  was  busy  else 
where  and  didn't  see  him,  whether  he  fell  off  and 
broke  his  neck  or  set  himself  afire  with  the  taper 
was  nobody's  concern  but  his  own. 

The  lawn  of  Calvary  Methodist  church  became  a 


52  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

fantastic,  romantic  place  where  harsh  faces  softened 
and  thin  ladies  became  less  scrawny  and  fat  ladies 
became  merely  plump  and  homely  girls  became 
pretty  and  pretty  girls  prettier.  Figures  in  white 
moved  about  among  the  tables  from  which  arose  the 
sociable  hum  of  animated  small-town  "conversation" 
and  the  tinkle  of  tableware  and  spoons.  And  the  ice 
cream  was  not  the  flat,  starchy,  patented  quick- 
process  stuff  bought  in  these  latter  days  from  a  public 
caterer  and  sold  at  a  profit  which  is  the  obtaining  of 
money  under  false  pretences.  It  was  great  yellow 
rich  scoops  of  frozen  deliciousness  made  with  real 
cream,  —  and  eggs  that  weighed  eight  to  the  pound. 
A  plateful  was  a  meal  and  two  plates  full  a  hurry  call 
on  the  castor-oil  commissary. 

Mary  accompanied  Slug  to  the  ice-cream  social  and 
entertainment  and  found  a  corner  with  him  not  far 
from  the  piano  where  was  a  "table  for  two",  and  she 
sat  and  dissipated  in  a  dish  which  she  had  grown  up 
to  recognize  as  sacred  to  occasions  of  great  ceremony. 

The  boy  tried  introducing  her  to  girls  who  passed 
them  or  waited  on  the  tables.  But  it  was  an  awk 
ward,  painful  proceeding  and  after  two  attempts 
he  gave  it  up.  None  of  them  lingered.  They 
acknowledged  the  introduction  with  a  quick  "pleez- 
tomeecher"  and  were  gone  on  errands  of  an  ex 
tremely  urgent  nature. 

"Ain't  much  society  around  here  to-night,"  apolo 
gized  Herbert.  "As  old  man  Fodder  says,  it's 
principally  giggle,  garble,  gobble  and  git !  Any 
how,  there's  the  entertainment  and  if  it  ain't  worth 
fifteen  cents  we'll  take  it  out  on  Adam  McQuarry." 
Thinking  this  a  good  joke,  Herb  laughed  and  pulled 
off  his  hat,  and  his  cowlick  arose  as  though  in  aston- 


THE  GREATER  GLORY  53 

ishment  to  find  itself  at  a  church  lawn  party,  and 
Mary  was  obliged  to  laugh  also,  though  not  at  Herb's 
pleasantry. 

The  entertainment  began  at  eight-thirty  with  a 
prayer  by  the  minister,  —  although  whether  to  in 
voke  a  blessing  on  the  artists  or  compassion  on  the 
audience  was  not  made  clear  by  the  text.  Then 
Doctor  Dodd  announced  that  the  first  number  on  the 
program  would  be  a  duet  by  the  Rathburn  Twins 
from  Chopin  (he  pronounced  it  "choppin")  and  the 
two  terrifically  starched  and  stiffly  braided  little 
Rathburn  girls  were  headed  toward  the  piano  and 
pushed  forward.  They  climbed  on  two  stools  facing 
a  piece  of  music  as  large  as  themselves  and  after 
several  audible  "one-two- three"  "one-two-three" 
became  launched  on  the  rendition  of  so-called  music 
in  a  manner  which  quickly  demonstrated  that 
Doctor  Dodd  had  not  been  so  very  far  wrong  in  his 
pronunciation  of  the  name  after  all.  Uncle  Joe 
Fodder  in  the  office  next  day  declared  that  whenever 
he  saw  those  musical  but  diminutive  Rathburn  Twins 
high  on  stools  before  some  philosophical  long-suffering 
piano  they  reminded  him  of  a  couple  of  painters 
slung  on  a  staging  half-way  down  the  sides  of  a 
three-story  building  hurrying  to  finish  the  job  before 
their  paint  gave  out. 

It  was  Uncle  Joe's  favorite  joke. 

One  of  the  Twins  having  finished  the  duet  not  more 
than  four  bars  ahead  of  the  other  and  having  to  play 
"  The  Storm"  as  an  encore  because  the  Twin's  mother 
constantly  embraced  such  opportunities  to  call 
public  attention  to  their  capacity  for  "expression" 
(in  which  she  was  tremendously  successful  although 
not  in  just  the  way  she  intended),  Doctor  Dodd 
declared  that  they  would  next  be  favored  with 


54  THE   GREATER  GLORY 

an  instrumental  selection  from  Master  Robert 
Bo  wen. 

"Master"  Robert  Bowen,  consisting  mostly  of 
Windsor  tie,  knees  like  gourds  and  manifest  stage 
fright  —  who  in  other  times  and  seasons  was  more 
popularly  referred  to  as  "that  lanky  Bowen  young 
one"  —  pulled  up  his  stockings  with  a  subconscious 
jerk,  wiped  his  nose  with  the  back  of  his  hand  and 
followed  Grace  Rawlins  to  the  piano.  Thereupon  he 
proceeded,  as  Uncle  Joe  also  commented,  to  "murder 
Old  Black  Joe  with  a  fiddle  got  with  soap- wrappers." 

Esmeralda  Truman,  whose  latest  brainstorm  was  a 
career  on  the  stage — next  recited  —  as  Doctor  Dodd 
announced  it  "  Curfew  Shall  Not  Ring  To-night 
With  Piano  Accompaniment."  And  when  she 
showed  her  hands  "  all  torn  and  bleeding"  and  struck 
a  rather  hysterical  pitch  when  Cromwell  arrived  and 
announced  that  her  lover  lived  and  could  resume  his 
job  in  the  morning,  Uncle  Joe  Fodder  couldn't  stand 
the  entertainment  a  moment  longer  but  stamped  off 
down  to  the  Whitney  House  bar  and  had  a  strong 
drink. 

Jerry  Peterson  who  worked  in  the  wagon  shop  did 
some  sleight-of-hand  tricks  that  fooled  everybody  but 
the  small  boys,  and  Clarence  Potherton  appeared  in 
blackface  and  had  a  good  deal  to  say  about  the  train 
that  went  to  Morrow  to-morrow  but  got  all  tangled 
up  in  his  time  of  departure  and  destination  and  did 
three-quarters  of  the  song  in  a  manner  which  sug 
gested  that  his  mouth  was  filled  with  hot  potatoes. 

Julian  Blackburn  told  a  few  jokes  about  the  baby 
brother  that  couldn't  be  sent  back  to  heaven  because 
he'd  been  used  four  days  and  about  Irish  widow 
ladies  who  had  the  news  of  their  bereavements  broken 
to  them  in  strange  and  wonderful  ways.  And 


THE   GREATER  GLORY  55 

Douglas  MacMillan  appeared  on  the  scene  in  Scot 
tish  kilts  with  a  couple  of  cavalry  swords  and  did  the 
Sword  Dance,  his  younger  brother  improvising  a 
Scottish  bagpipe  out  of  his  nose,  while  several  elderly 
ladies  turned  their  faces  away  and  said  the  very  idea 
to  let  Douglas  come  into  a  church  entertainment  in 
his  bare  legs  like  that  and  why  didn't  some  one  send 
him  home  to  put  on  his  pants  ? 

The  entertainment  was  concluded  with  the  sing 
ing  of  "America,"  —  Mibb  Henderson  with  her  rich 
but  abused  contralto  taking  the  verses  as  solos  and 
the  audience  joining  in  on  the  chorus.  The  young 
ladies  took  the  soprano,  the  elderly  ladies  took  the 
alto,  the  young  men  took  the  tenor,  and  the  old  men 
took  anything  they  could  get. 

The  parents  then  called  noisy  children  from  their 
fellowship  on  the  church  steps,  or  lifted  phenomenal 
infants  who  had  slept  through  it  all,  from  their  laps 
and  started  toward  home. 

Several  good  souls  rolled  up  their  sleeves  and 
pinned  on  borrowed  aprons  and  tackled  the  pile  of 
dishes,  looking  for  their  reward  in  heaven.  Lovers 
paired  off  and  dissolved  quietly  into  moonlit  streets 
and  under  sleeping  maples.  Adam  McQuarry  blew 
out  all  the  lanterns  that  hadn't  caught  fire  and  pro 
ceeded  to  "cart  all  the  junk  indoors,  because  it  looked 
like  rain  before  morning  and  the  table  tops  might 
warp." 

And  through  the  entertainment,  with  half  a  plate 
of  ice  cream  unconsumed  before  her,  little  Mary 
Wood  sat  apart  with  Herb  Truman  and  thought 
how  this  indeed  was  life,  and  of  her  mother  at  a 
moonlit  window  far  away  on  Cobb  Hill  too  weary 
and  heart-heavy  to  seek  her  bed. 

Herb  got  to  his  feet,  found  his  hat  under  the  table, 


56  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

effectively  squelched  the  riotous  cowlick  and  mur 
mured  something  about  how  he  hoped  he  could  see 
her  safe  home.  And  they  casually  moved  off  the 
lawn  with  the  others  and  found  themselves  in  de 
serted  summer  streets  where  the  young  man  regaled 
her  with  items  of  interest  wherein  his  own  ec 
centricities  were  prominent. 

He  asked  her  if  she  supposed  the  little  black  mare, 
Monday-Washing,  could  possibly  contract  shoe  boil, 
and  when  she  said  she  couldn't  imagine  such  a  thing, 
he  declared  that  Monday-Washing  had  done  that 
thing  and  explained  in  great  detail  how  Doc  Sawyer 
the  veterinary  had  lanced  it  and  taken  away  a 
"quart"  and  could  she  suppose  you  could  take  away 
a  "quart"  from  the  leg  of  a  mare  as  small  and  neat 
as  Monday- Washing. 

Mary  replied  rather  faintly  that  she  could  not 
conceive  of  such  a  happening  which  prompted  Slug 
to  move  on  to  the  subject  of  glanders. 

Had  she  ever  had  a  horse  with  glanders  ?  No  ? 
Well,  did  she  know  what  to  do  if  she  should  have  a 
horse  with  glanders  ?  No  ?  Well,  he  would  tell  her 
so  that  she  might  be  prepared  for  such  an  emergency 
and  save  the  animal  from  the  death-violent  at  the 
hands  of  the  authorities.  Which  he  did,  with  much 
elaboration  of  the  price  the  secret  had  cost  him  and 
the  intimation  that  he  was  disclosing  it  only  because 
he  took  it  she  was  a  friend  and  could  be  trusted. 

He  confided  to  her  that  Jim  Stile's  collie  dog  had 
mange  and  that  nothing  would  tickle  him  more  than 
to  know  that  Jim's  dog  had  given  it  to  fussy  little 
Miss  Sparrow's  curly-tailed  pug.  He  said  that  if 
Frank  Morrow  persisted  in  running  his  bay  so  fast 
between  here  and  Barre  that  he  was  going  to  break 
her  wind  and  wanted  to  know  which  she  would  pre- 


THE  GREATER  GLORY  57 

f er  :  a  mare  with  broken  wind  or  a  horse  with  spavin  ? 
Finding  at  length  however,  that  Mary  was  not 
prolific  on  the  ailments  of  horses  and  dogs,  he 
changed  to  athletics. 

The  longest  way  round  being  the  shortest  way 
home,  they  did  not  turn  in  at  Mrs.  Mather's  gate 
when  they  reached  School  Street.  Slug  said  some 
thing  about  a  fine  night  and  would  she  walk  down  as 
far  as  the  water- works  and  back  to  enjoy  it?  And 
Mary  —  because  he  was  the  first  young  man  who  had 
taken  interest  in  her  since  she  arrived  in  Paris  — 
consented  and  with  hat  in  hand  wandered  with  him 
down  Main  Street  and  through  Pine  and  off  to  the 
south  of  town. 

Slug  grew  intimate  on  the  return.  At  Glark  Street 
he  put  his  hand  under  her  arm  to  help  her  over  the 
broken  crosswalk  and  on  the  other  side  he  did  not 
take  it  away.  She  was  rather  glad  they  were  headed 
homeward.  He  got  around  in  a  conversational  way 
to  family  affairs,  among  which  he  confided  to  her  that 
most  of  the  time  his  sister  Esmeralda  gave  him  a  pain 
in  the  neck  anyhow  and  that  all  she  needed  was 
someone  to  marry  her  that  would  whale  the  tar  out  of 
her. 

He  said  that  his  mother  had  long  ago  impressed  it 
upon  him  that  he  ought  to  marry  and  settle  down,  but 
that  he  said  to  her  he'd  be  damned  if  he  would  until 
the  right  girl  came  along,  all  the  girls  in  the  village 
being  more  or  less  lightheaded  sisters  who  couldn't 
boil  water  without  burning  it  and  a  hundred  to  one 
would  try  to  cook  a  chicken  without  removing  the 
feathers. 

He  asked  her  if  she  ever  had  moments  when  the 
feeling  came  over  her  that  all  folks  cared  about  her 
was  for  her  money  or  what  they  could  get  out  of  her 


58  THE   GREATER  GLORY 

and  sustained  a  rather  suggestive  pressure  on  her  arm 
when  he  asked  her  if  love  wasn't  the  real  true  thing 
in  life  after  all  and  what  could  you  find  to  equal  it  ? 

It  was  a  badly  disquieted  girl  who  saw  the  white 
fence  of  Mrs.  Mathers'  house  come  in  sight  a  second 
time,  feeling  herself  in  a  situation  beyond  her  control. 

They  stood  for  a  while  at  the  gate  post,  the  girl 
leaning  back  against  it  with  her  bonnet  behind  her, 
gazing  from  time  to  time  a  bit  fearfully  up  into  the 
young  man's  face. 

"Well,"  said  he,  "I  hope  you  had  a  pleasant 
evenin'." 

"Yes,"  she  faltered. 

"Hope  we'll  see  more  of  each  other." 

"I  hope  so." 

"Well,  I  suppose  I  got  to  say  good-by." 

"Good-by.  I've  had  an  awful  good  time.  I 
can't  tell  you  how  grateful  I  am  to  you." 

Before  she  realized  what  he  intended  there  was  an 
elephantine  arm  upon  her  neck,  the  faint  reek  of  stale 
cigar  smoke  in  her  senses  and  a  dab  of  a  kiss  had  been 
imprinted  upon  the  side  of  her  half -parted  lips. 

Her  face  burned.  There  came  a  choke  in  her 
throat.  She  raised  the  back  of  one  hand  to  her 
mouth  and  held  it  there.  Her  eyes  fused  tears  of 
mortification. 

"How  —  how  —  could  you?"  she  lisped  faintly. 

"I  didn't  mean  nothin'  by  it,"  he  laughed  un 
easily.  "Aw,  come  back!  All  the  girls  in  our  set 
lemme  kiss  'em  when  I  see  'em  safe  home " 

"How  — could  you?"  she  said  again.  "And 
I  thought  you  were  a  gentleman." 

"I  am  a  gentleman  !  " 

But  she  went  swiftly  up  the  steps  and  into  the 
house. 


CHAPTER  V 

IN  WHICH  A  RATHER  BORED  BUT  INDUSTRIOUS 
SMALL-TOWN  DEVIL  TAKES  OUR  LITTLE  JELLY 
BEAN  HEROINE  UP  ONTO  A  MOUNTAIN  TOP  AND 
SHOWS  HER  THE  KINGDOMS  OF  THE  WORLD. 

SUMMER  faded.  Dreamy  days  of  russet  and  gold 
followed.  Over  the  eastern  wooded  hills  loitered  a 
harvest  moon.  There  were  husking  bees  and  corn 
roasts  out  among  the  farmer  folk.  In  the  tangled 
woodlands  songs  of  winter  fires  were  aripple  in  the 
sear  brown  leaves.  In  the  west  appeared  low-lying 
cloudbanks  and  the  leaden  grays  of  November  were 
upon  us. 

One  Saturday  morning  toward  the  close  of  Indian 
summer  the  office  mail  contained  a  letter  for  Mary. 
Running  her  eye  down  the  single  sheet  and  noting 
the  signature,  the  pallor  fled  and  a  dull  red  took  its 
place. 

It  was  a  letter  from  Herbert  and  contained  the 
following  chatter : 

I  was  fresh,  too  darned  fresh.     All  summer 

you  been  keeping  away  from  me  and  avoiding  me 
and  you  taught  me  a  lesson.  I'm  sorry  and  I  apolo 
gize.  It  won't  ever  happen  again.  It's  come  to  me 
that  you're  just  the  kind  of  girl  I  been  waiting  for ; 
a  girl  who  wouldn't  let  me  get  fresh. 

"I  mean  this.     I  want  you  to  forgive  me.     Show  me 


60  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

you  accept  my  apology  by  going  to  ride  with  me  to 
morrow  behind  Monday- Washing  out  Gilbert's  Mills 
way.  If  you'd  done  something  you  were  sorry  for 
and  asked  forgiveness,  you'd  want  to  be  taken  in  the 
same  spirit  you  apologize  in,  wouldn't  you?  Then 
be  ready  and  come  with  me  around  one  o'clock " 

She  saw  him  across  the  street  when  she  came  out 
of  the  office  later  that  night.  She  went  deliberately 
over  and  intercepted  him. 

"I  got  your  letter,"  she  said,  "I'm  sorry." 

"You'll  go  buggy -ridin'  with  me  to-morrow?" 

"Yes." 

He  called  for  her  at  Mrs.  Mathers  after  Sunday 
dinner  next  day.  All  the  inmates  of  the  boarding 
house  watched  them  drive  away.  Mrs.  Mathers 
went  around  all  the  rest  of  the  afternoon  looking 
troubled. 

It  was  a  lazy  autumn  day.  The  sun  was  warm, 
the  fields  were  fragrant  with  stubble  over  which  blew 
a  fitful  wind.  Barrels  stood  beneath  apple  trees ; 
ladders  leaned  against  yellow-leafed  boughs.  The 
horizons  were  hazy.  Autumn's  mysterious  voices 
were  calling  as  they  have  called  since  the  world  was 
young. 

They  drove  out  of  town  by  the  south  road. 
The  hills  hid  Paris  behind  them.  The  little  mare 
shied  at  boulders  and  old  newspapers  fluttering 
against  roadside  bushes.  The  New  England  country 
rolled  away  until  it  was  blurred  in  a  violet  skyline. 

For  several  miles  there  was  a  silence  between  them. 
Then  Herb  said : 

"Thank  you  for  fdrgivin'  me;  girls  in  this  town 
as  a  rule  are  too  fresh  anyhow  !  " 

"Let's  not  talk  about  that.     I  see  by  a  local  I 


THE   GREATER  GLORY  61 

*  set  up'  on  Friday  that  your  sister  has  gone  to  New 
York." 

"Thinks  she's  goin'  on  the  stage.  She's  just  like 
all  the  rest.  Makes  me  sick." 

Mary  tried  again. 

"I  see  the  Odd  Fellows  are  going  to  give  a  play 
in  the  Opera  House.  You're  an  Odd  Fellow,  aren't 
you?" 

"Yes,"  he  replied  curtly.     "But  I  don't  want  to 
talk  about  that.     I  want  to  talk  about  —  about  — 
something  else." 

"You  promised  in  your  letter  that  —  nothing 
would  ever  happen  - 

"But  I'm  honest  in  what  I've  got  to  say  to  you. 
I've  thought  lots  about  the  lawn  party  and  our  walk 
—  home.  Do  you  know,  you're  the  first  girl  in  this 
town  who's  ever  let  me  talk  with  her  about  horses 
and  dogs  and  sports  and  such  ?  " 

"Yes?" 

"And  a  girl  that's  interested  in  the  things  a  man  is 
interested  in,  is  bound  to  prove  interesting  to  the 
man  them  things  interest." 

"You'll  get  twisted  up  in  your  tongue  if  you 
attempt  many  sentences  like  that."  Yet  despite 
her  laugh,  Mary  was  uneasy. 

"I'm  serious." 

She  sobered.  The  man's  declaration  was  an 
appeal.  Regardless  of  his  size  and  awkwardness  he 
suddenly  showed  himself  to  her  as  nothing  but  a 
lonely,  heartsick,  unmothered  boy.  That  was  why 
he  had  apologized  to  her  —  perhaps.  A  queer  feeling 
of  wanting  to  do  something  maternal  came  over  her. 

"Let  me  keep  company  with  you  —  this  winter," 
he  asked. 

She  sensed  again  that  the  situation  was  engulfing 


62  THE  GREATER  GLORY 

her.  To  keep  company  with  her  ?  What  lay  at  the 
end  of  such  an  experience,  —  what  but  marriage  or 
a  broken  love  affair?  For  there  were  no  "friend 
ships"  among  the  younger  set  in  those  days  that 
have  since  come  to  be.  To  keep  company  with  a 
girl,  to  be  seen  constantly  in  public  with  her,  to  visit 
her  regularly  on  Wednesday  evenings  was  tanta 
mount  to  an  engagement.  If  honorable  the  end  was 
matrimony.  And  as  she  rode  along  in  the  light  buggy 
with  the  delightfully  easy  springs  behind  the  neat 
little  mare,  over  the  autumn  hills  and  far  away  be 
side  the  stocky  young  man  with  the  idiotic  pompa 
dour  and  lumberous  manners,  she  tried  to  conceive 
of  herself  as  married  to  young  Truman.  And  at  the 
conception  there  stirred  in  her  heart  a  little  protest. 
And  yet  —  what  would  her  mother  say  if  she  knew 
that  a  young  man  with  a  fortune  was  at  the  moment 
taking  her  out  riding  and  asking  her  to  enter  a  rela 
tion  which  unfailingly  led  to  matrimony  —  that  this 
was  happening  and  that  in  the  daughter's  heart  was 
disappointment  and  resentment? 

"What  —  what  would  your  folks  say  to  any  such 
arrangement?"  the  girl  demanded  after  another  mile. 

"Oh we'd  keep  it  quiet.  They'd  kick  like 

steers  probably,  but  we'd  keep  it  quiet.  We'd  just 
slip  away  somewhere  on  the  sly  and  be  — 

"What!" 

He  took  out  the  whip  and  slashed  the  little  mare 
cruelly,  effecting  to  "train"  her  when  there  was  not 
the  least  reason  for  training  her  at  all. 

"I  always  put  my  foot  in  it!"  he  complained. 
"  I'm  a  great  big  lummox,  I  am,  and  I  wish  —  I  wish 
I  was  dead  ! " 

"You  mustn't  wish  that.     It's  wicked  !" 

"But  haven't  you  ever  felt  blue  and  lonesome  and 


THE   GREATER  GLORY  63 

as  if  nothin'  you  did  was  worth  while,  and  nobody 
gave  a  darn  for  you,  and  if  you  didn't  have  money 
you'd  be  the  least  among  all  the  people  in  the 
world ?" 

"I've  been  blue  and  lonesome,  yes.  I've  often 
felt  as  if  nothing  I  had  accomplished  was  worth 
while.  But  I  don't  know  about  folks  caring  for 
me  only  for  money.  You  see,  I  never  had  money  — 
to  bother  me  —  that  way  —  that  is  —  much  ! " 

"That's  so!     But  you  can  imagine  — 

"Yes." 

"I  knew  you  could.  You're  that  kind.  Did  you 
know  there's  lots  of  girls  in  Paris  that'd  like  to  be 
out  here  with  me  havin'  me  talk  to  'em  like  this." 

"Maybe  so.     But  you  see " 

"Well,  — what?" 

"You're — asking  me  so  much — so  suddenly— 

"I  know  all  about  that.  It  don't  make  me  feel 
no  better  to  realize  it." 

"Please,  please!  Let's  talk  about  something 
else.  Let  me  think  !" 

It  was  eight  o'clock  when  they  drove  into  the 
village  from  the  east.  Most  of  the  towns  folk  were 
in  church;  from  behind  stained  glass  windows 
organ  music  carried  out  on  the  spicy  autumn  night 
the  tunes  of  beautiful  old  hymns. 

"I  wish  you'd  come  in  and  meet  my  folks," 
said  Herb.  They  were  opposite  the  big  white  house 
with  the  only  plate-glass  windows  in  Paris,  sur 
rounded  by  the  aristocratic  iron  fence  and  with  the 
terra-cotta  statue  in  the  center  of  the  leaf-choked 
front  yard.  Monday- Washing  was  making  urgent 
appeals  to  turn  in  at  the  driveway.  She  offered  no 
protest  as  the  boy  gave  the  little  mare  the  reins 
and  she  stopped  before  the  side  door. 


64  THE   GREATER  GLORY 

She  waited  a  moment  on  the  brown-stone  steps 
while  Herbert  hurriedly  unharnessed  the  mare, 
blanketed  her,  fed  her  and  pushed  the  buggy  out 
of  the  way  in  the  carriage  house.  Then  he  took 
her  arm  and  they  passed  into  his  home  together. 

The  girl  had  never  before  been  in  such  a  house. 
In  books  and  magazines  she  had  read  of  them  and 
tried  to  picture  what  they  were  like.  Now  that  she 
found  herself  in  the  big  hall  with  her  poorly  shod 
little  feet  sinking  into  rich  carpets  and  the  atmos 
phere  of  rich  embroideries  and  hangings  assailing  her, 
she  was  awed  and  frightened. 

The  lad  helped  her  off  with  her  coat  and  hung  it 
on  the  big  black  walnut  hall-tree.  He  led  her  into 
the  southeastern  front  room  and  left  her  while  he 
went  in  search  of  his  mother. 

Whatever  his  parsimony  might  be  in  business,  old 
Short-Cramp  was  a  home  man  and  his  house  was  his 
castle  furnished  according  to  his  means.  A  marble 
mantel  was  built  on  the  north  side  of  the  room  with 
an  open  fireplace  beneath.  The  fall  night  being 
chilly,  a  fire  had  been  burning  in  the  grate  and  the 
charred  embers  were  warm  and  hospitable.  The 
carpet  was  similiar  to  floor  coverings  in  the  hall 
and  the  high  windows  were  hung  with  heavy  cur 
tains  of  creamy  lace.  The  chairs  were  upholstered 
in  gray.  Over  the  carved  center  table  was  a  chan 
delier  of  a  hundred  spangles  and  the  big  oil  lamp  in 
the  center  sent  out  an  illumination  which  blended 
the  whole  into  an  air  of  unutterable  luxury. 

The  girl  sank  into  one  of  the  chairs  drawn  before 
the  dying  fire.  Something  deep  within  her  stirred 
in  appreciation  and  compatibility  with  the  atmos 
phere  about  her. 

To  live  in  a  house  like  this  was  what  it  meant  to  be 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  65 

wealthy.  This  is  what  her  mother  had  wanted.  To 
gain  an  entrance  to  such  a  life  was  the  reason  that 
she  had  tried  to  finish  her  schooling  that  had  been  so 
unhappily  interrupted.  She  thought  of  the  lonely 
farmhouse  on  the  Cobb  Hill  road  in  contrast,  and 
she  choked  back  an  impulse  to  shed  tears.  The 
avenue  was  open  to  her  to  spend  all  the  rest  of  her 
days  in  such  a  mansion.  And  after  all,  Slug  wasn't 
such  an  impossible  boy.  He  was  only  big  and 
clumsy  and  lonesome  and  heart-hungry.  He  would 
never  treat  her  as  Pa  Wheeler  had  treated  her 
mother.  He  wasn't  that  kind.  What  should  she 
do  ?  She  had  no  one  to  help  her  or  take  counsel 
with  her,  She  knew  well  enough  what  her  mother 
would  say.  And  with  thoughts  of  her  mother 
came  the  realization  of  what  she  could  do  for  the 
woman  with  the  terribly  reddened  hands  if  as 
Herb's  wife  she  had  access  to  the  Truman  money. 
She  wept  —  a  little  bit  —  before  Herbert  returned. 

"Neither  mother  nor  father  are  in  the  house," 
he  announced.  "I  suppose  they've  stepped  out  to 
Sunday  meetin'." 

"I'm  sorry,"  she  said.  "Some  other  time,  per 
haps - 

"Don't  go,"  he  pleaded. 

"I  must,"  she  said  simply. 

Rather  sorrowfully  he  assented.  He  followed 
her  back  into  the  hall  and  helped  her  with  her  coat. 

"Mary,"  he  said  '  -I  don't  mean  nothin* 
wrong  by  what  I  been  tellin'  you  this  afternoon." 

"I  know  you  don't,  Herbert." 

She  stood  by  the  door,  her  fingers  fumbling  the 
rim  of  her  bonnet,  her  face  downcast. 

"I'd  like  to  keep  company  with  you  —  regular  — 

"Let  me  —  please  let  me  —  think  it  over." 


66  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

"All  right,"  he  agreed.  His  agreement  was 
pathetic. 

The  luxury  and  refinement  of  the  place  she  was 
leaving  was  speaking  to  her.  Outside  was  the  dull 
gray  night  with  the  strange  mystetious  heart-cries 
of  autumn.  The  thought  of  her  own  hard  life  up 
to  the  moment,  her  mother's  sacrifice  and  present 
predicament,  the  uncertainty  of  the  future,  the 
work  and  struggle  and  worry,  all  arose  before  her 
and  confused  and  unbalanced  her. 

Courteously  Herbert  opened  the  big  front  door 
and  stood  aside  for  her  to  precede  him.  His  desire 
to  please  her,  to  do  the  correct  and  gentlemanly 
thing,  overwhelmed  her. 

"Herbert,"  she  said  hi  a  voice  she  scarcely  recog 
nized  as  her  own. 

"Yes,  Mary." 

"You  can  kiss  me  —  if  you  want  to !"  she  offered 
softly. 

The  humble  scribe  who  sits  here  in  the  corner  of 
this  grimy  little  newspaper  office  recording  this 
narrative,  entered  the  back  room  unnoticed  the 
next  noontime,  —  entered  to  find  little  Mary  Wood 
with  her  head  down  on  her  type  case  by  the  window 
weeping  with  no  one  to  see.  Daddy  Joe,  fatherly 
old  tramp  printer,  was  in  the  next  ad-alley. 

The  girl  suddenly  raised  her  head.  She  turned 
and  looked  out  of  the  window,  down  Cross  Street 
and  beyond  the  town  to  the  brown  hills  awaiting 
the  winter. 

"Daddy  Joe,"  said  the  girl,  "tell  me;  is  it  real 
wrong  for  a  girl  to  want  to  marry  money  ?" 

Joe  did  not  know  she  had  been  weeping.  In  a 
voice  soft  and  sympathetic  he  replied  across  the  cases  : 


THE  GREATER  GLORY  67 

"Suppose  you  tell  an  old  man  the  circumstances, 
honey." 

"Oh  there  aren't  hardly  any  circumstances,  Joe. 
Only  I'm  just  tired,  that's  all.  I'm  tired  of  living 
in  a  boarding-house  bedroom  all  alone.  I'm  tired 
of  getting  up  at  the  unfeeling  bang  of  a  cheap  alarm- 
clock  every  morning.  I'm  tired  of  having  no  one 
to  talk  to  at  night,  no  one  who  cares  about  me  for 
myself  alone.  I'm  weary  of  making  endless  motions, 
setting  endless  galleys,  correcting  endless  proofs, 
drawing  my  pay  envelope  every  Saturday  that's 
spent  before  I  get  it  —  for  board,  for  clothes  —  for 
the  help  of  mother  out  on  the  farm.  Sometimes  I 
feel  just  as  if  I'd  like  some  man  —  any  man  —  to 
come  along  with  about  a  billion  dollars  and  pick 
me  up  and  carry  me  off  and  do  anything  he  wants 
with  me,  so  long  as  he'll  only  take  away  the  endless 
grind ;  so  long  as  he'll  just  provide  me  with  pretty 
clothes  and  proper  food  and  a  few  good  times  and 
just  let  me  —  rest.  Yes,  I'm  wondering  if  it's 
sinful  to  want  to  marry  any  man  for  his  money." 

Now  those  are  dangerous  sentiments  from  an  honest 
pretty  girl.  Daddy  Joe  saw  in  a  moment  that  it 
wasn't  money  the  girl  craved.  It  was  love.  For 
as  I  heard  him  tell  her  that  day,  "when  folks  is  in 
love  they  don't  give  a  hoot  'bout  making  no  endless 
motions  or  payin'  board  or  gettin'  up  every  morning 
to  the  bang  o'  a  cheap  alarm  clock."  Fatherly 
old  Joe,  whom  we  found  out  afterward  had  buried 
a  wife  and  two  children,  saw  that  the  girl  was  tired, 
friendless  and  alone ;  that  it  depended  upon  him  to 
keep  her  feet  in  pathways  that  were  straight. 

"Yes,  Mary,"  he  went  on,  "it's  downright  wicked 
to  want  to  splice  up  for  cash  when  you  just  ain't 
swept  off  your  feet  with  hell-bent-for-election  adora- 


68 

tion  for  somebody.  What  you  need  is  for  some  nice 
young  chap  to  come  along  and  get  you  interested  in 
him.  Ain't  you  got  no  steady,  Mary?" 

"No,  "said  the  girl. 

"Then  just  you  hang  on,  Mary,"  said  the  kind 
old  fellow.  "The  right  boy's  on  his  way  along. 
You'll  meet  him  sooner  or  later  and  when  he  comes 
you  won't  have  to  be  told.  And  you  don't  want  to 
go  spoilin'  things  by  havin'  him  find  you  the  wife  of 
some  other  fellow  just  because  there  was  money-bags 
figgered  in  it.  You  want  to  be  free  to  marry  that 
young  chap  in  a  world  all  pink  and  gold  with  happi 
ness.  And  you'll  have  a  nice  home  and  all  your 
troubles  will  be  forgotten." 

The  old  man  cheered  the  girl  and  she  dried  her 
tears  and  went  on  with  her  string  of  locals.  But 
as  he  bent  over  his  stick  I  saw  him  sadly  shaking  his 
world-wise  old  head  —  like  Mrs.  Mathers. 


CHAPTER  VI 

ENTER   THE   ONLY   HERO   THIS   HEROLESS   STORY 
WILL  EVER  KNOW 

THE  week  following  Christmas,  two  things  hap 
pened  :  First,  the  North  Sidney  Bulletin,  a  little 
weekly  newspaper  up  in  the  northern  part  of  the 
State,  failed  for  several  thousand  more  dollars  than 
it  was  worth  and  was  duly  eulogized  by  the  Ver 
mont  newspaper  fraternity.  Old  Joshua  Purse, 
who  was  ill  of  pneumonia  at  the  time  the  creditors 
petitioned  the  court  for  a  referee,  passed  away  two 
days  later  and  the  newspaper  folk  of  the  State 
wondered  what  was  going  to  become  of  his  boy  John 
who  had  been  associated  with  him  in  the  business. 

The  second  thing  which  occurred  that  Christmas 
week  was  the  unusual  disability  and  indisposition 
on  the  part  of  several  of  our  workmen  to  remember 
Christmas  season  to  keep  it  sober.  Two  of  them 
stayed  away  at  great  length  and  the  Telegraph 
almost  missed  two  issues.  Sam  Hod  came  across 
with  a  letter  which  he  laid  on  my  desk. 

"Bill,"  said  he,  "I'm  sick  of  these  journeymen. 
I'm  going  to  get  some  workmen  of  a  little  higher 
class.  Joshua  Purse's  boy  has  written  asking  if 
there's  an  opening  on  our  staff.  He  says  he  can  do 
anything  on  a  newspaper  from  sweeping  the  floor 
to  writing  editorials.  I'm  going  to  send  for  him  to 
come  down  and  talk  it  over." 

Two  days  later  the  Purse  boy  came. 


70 

Hiring  a  new  man  from  that  time  onward  grew 
into  a  ceremony  for  Young  Sam.  There  was  a  long 
visit  and  catechism  in  the  private  office  and  negotia 
tions  extending  over  another  day  in  the  matter  of 
duties  and  wages.  Jack  had  been  closeted  with 
Sam  about  twenty  minutes  when  the  editor  was 
called  across  the  street.  He  left  Jack  in  the  private 
office  with  the  door  open.  Jack  moved  across  into 
Sam's  swivel  chair  before  this  battered  table  and 
began  to  read  over  some  of  the  exchanges. 

He  was  so  occupied  when  Mary  came  through  with 
a  proof  of  an  editorial  in  her  soiled  hands.  She  heard 
the  well-known  creak  of  the  desk  chair  in  the  inner 
office.  She  supposed  that  it  was  Sam.  She  entered 
the  private  sanctum  with  her  eyes  riveted  on  the 
proof.  She  laid  it  down  on  the  table,  and  then  she 
missed  the  familiar  baldspot  on  top  of  the  head  of  the 
man  to  whose  attention  she  had  called  an  error. 
She  took  her  eyes  from  the  type  and  started  back 
when  she  recognized  a  stranger.  A  stranger  ? 

She  saw  a  lad  of  about  her  own  age,  slenderly 
built,  with  a  fine  serious  face,  high  forehead  and 
wavy  brown  hair  who  was  half  a  head  taller  than 
herself  and  looked  shyly  into  her  eyes  with  honest 
confusion.  For  a  moment  boy  and  girl  stared  at 
one  another  without  speaking.  Then  : 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  faltered  Mary,  "I  thought 
you  were  Mr.  Hod." 

"I'm  John  Purse,"  he  said  half -apologetically,  as 
though  it  explained  everything.  "I'm  hoping  to 
get  a  place  here." 

The  girl  was  staring  at  his  fine  face.  The  sensa 
tion  which  comes  to  all  of  us  at  times  of  having  been 
in  exactly  the  same  circumstances  and  done  the 
same  thing  beiore  when  we  know  we  have  not,  came 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  71 

over  her  then.     A  stranger?     This  young  chap  was 
not  a  stranger.     Wherever  had  she  seen  him  before  ? 

"I  —  I  —  thought  for  a  moment  that  I  knew  you," 
she  went  on.  "Your  face  is  familiar." 

He  laughed,  showing  a  set  of  fine  even  teeth. 

"And  I  was  thinking  the  same  of  you." 

"Have  you  ever  been  in  Paris  before?" 

"No."  " 

"Or  North  Foxboro?" 

"No."  He  fingered  his  watch  charm.  "And  you 
haven't  ever  been  up  to  North  Sidney  ?  I  come  from 
there,  you  know.  My  father  and  I  have  been  run 
ning  the  newspaper  there.  He  died  last  week." 

"I  know,"  said  Mary.  "I'm  so  sorry  for  you. 
I  set  up  Mr.  Hod's  editorial  about  it.  I  hope  you 
get  the  place  here.  Mr.  Hod  is  one  of  the  finest 
men  I  know." 

"I  hope  I  get  the  place  also,"  the  boy  returned. 

So  Jack  came  among  us. 

"  Who's  that  girl  ?  "  he  asked  of  "Slob"  Hanchette, 
indicating  Mary  Wood. 

"Her?  Oh,  that's  Slug  Truman's  'girl'  -least 
wise  he's  been  flirtin'  round  her  a  lot  lately,  though 
folks  say  they  can't  see  why  she  lets  him  make  an 
easy  mark  out  o'  her  just  because  he's  got  money. 
But  that's  always  the  way,  Ma  says.  And  Pa, 
he  says  that  many  a  chap  who  wouldn't  knock  a 
feller  man  when  he  was  down  or  kick  a  cripple  nor 
overturn  a  baby  carriage,  thinks  he's  did  somethin' 
smart  when  he's  got  the  best  o'  some  poor  trustin' 
girl.  She'll  fall  fer  him  afore  he's  through  with 
her  —  see  if  she  don't." 

"Who's  Slug  Truman?" 

"He's  a  sort  of  a  sport  'round  here.  Ma  says  all 
he's  good  for  is  sausage  meat  and  to  make  muddy 


72  THE   GREATER  GLORY 

tracks  on  the  church  carpet  and  Pa,  he  says  all  he's 
good  for  is  to  put  some  o'  old  Short-Cramp's  widder's- 
mites  back  into  the  channels  o'  trade.  Say,  Mr. 
Purse,  what's  *  widder's-mites'  ?  " 

"Money,"  answered  Jack.  "He's  rich,  you  say? 
And  courtin'  that  girl ?  And  is  she  poor?" 

"Yep  —  poorer  than  old  Mis'  Marks  down  by 
the  Gas  Works,  and  that's  goin'  some !  Her  folks 
live  out  to  Cobb  Hill.  Ma  says  her  mother's  a 
softie  and  Pa  says  if  there  was  more  like  her,  there'd 
be  less  old  men  go  to  the  devil  and  less  young  ones 
go  to  N'  York.  He  beat  her  up,  one  night  —  her 
stepfather  did.  So  she  come  over  here  and  got  a 
job.  Slug  rescued  her  then.  He  come  along  and 
found  her  bein'  beaten  up  and  he  sicked  his  bull 
dog,  Cardinal  Wolsey,  onto  him.  Anybody '11  tell 
you  the  story." 

Jack  Purse  worked  over  his  forms  in  silence  for  a 
time,  casting  clandestine  glances  at  Mary. 

"Is  she  engaged  to  —  marry  him  ?"  asked  Jack. 

"  Dunno.  Most  folks  doubt  it.  But  she  lets  him 
kiss  her.  I  seen  her.  I  was  goin'  past  his  house 
last  Sunday  night  and  I  seen  her  let  him  kiss  her 
behind  the  glass  o'  the  Truman  front  door.  I  tole 
Ma  about  it  and  Ma,  she  says  something  about  the 
social  precipice  and  Pa,  he  says :  *  Gawd,  that's 
too  bad.'  Say,  Mr.  Purse,  what's  the  Social 
Precipice?" 

"When  you  get  older  you'll  understand,"  said 
Jack. 

His  eyes  were  upon  the  dainty  features  bent  over 
the  composing  stick  and  the  pretty,  slender  back 
bowed  over  the  typecase.  "And  who's  the  black- 
eyed  girl  always  talking  about  her  'fellers'?" 

"That's  Mibb  Henderson.     Her  mother  runs  the 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  73 

mill  boarding  house  and  makes  old  Harvey  eat  the 
chicken  gizzards  and  pie-crusts.  Old  Harvey  got 
some  kind  of  a  crick  in  his  back  stabbin'  the  enemy 
at  Bull  Run  and  ain't  been  able  to  do  a  stroke  o* 
work  since.  Mibb  sings." 

"She  does  what?" 

"She  sings  —  solos  and  songs.  They  been  tryin' 
to  get  her  into  the  quartet  at  the  Methodist 
church  for  two  years  to  take  the  place  of  old  Mis' 
Busbee  who  always  flats  on  High  C,  but  Mibb  says 
the  only  time  they'll  ever  get  her  into  a  church  will 
be  so  the  proper  number  o'  folks  can  file  past  and 
remark  *  Don't  she  look  natural.'  Means  when 
she's  dead,  I  guess,  and  folks  come  to  her  funeral. 
Ma  says  all  she  needs  is  her  ears  boxed  regular  an 
a  few  chores  to  make  her  realize  she  lives  in  a  New 
England  small  town.  Pa,  he  says  she's  an  after- 
nine-o'clock  girl  and  if  she  was  his  daughter  he'd 
stop  it  if  he  had  to  go  lookin'  for  her  in  his  carpet 
slippers.  And  that  always  makes  Ma  sore  because 
she  thinks  it's  a  slam  at  the  slippers  she  give  him 
Christmas  and  she  says  he  won't  get  another  pair 
next  Christmas  if  his  feet  after  hours  has  to  go 
naked." 

Jack  spotted  an  ad  in  the  forms  and  undid  the 
string  from  around  it.  Then  he  wetted  it  with  a 
sponge  to  keep  the  rules  from  falling  over  until 
he  had  his  column  rules  in  place. 

"You  don't  wanner  go  chasin'  either  one  of  'em 
unless  you  got  money,  though,"  went  on  the  irre 
pressible  Hanchette  young  one.  "Because  that's 
principally  all  they  think  about  —  both  of  'em. 
Ma  says  the  younger  generation  is  perkin'  up  and 
Pa,  he  says  thank  Gawd  he's  shot  his  bolt  and 
ain't  called  on  to  strain  his  liver  no  longer  on  the 


74  THE   GREATER  GLORY 

gentler  sex's  demand  for  doo-dabs.  Have  you  got 
any  money,  Mr.  Purse?" 

"Not  —  much,"  confessed  our  new  employee. 

"Then  take  my  advice  and  choose  Annie,"  went 
on  Slob.  "She's  fat  but  she's  inexpensive  and 
chocolates  that  come  twenty  cents  a  pound  tickles 
her  just  as  much  as  the  kind  that  comes  by  the  box 
with  a  ribbon  around  'em." 

"Thanks,"  said  Jack  dryly. 

Jack  had  occasion  to  speak  to  the  girl  that  after 
noon  when  she  came  over  to  the  imposing  stones  to 
get  an  empty  galley. 

"Is  it  a  good  town  here  to  live  in  ?"  he  asked. 

She  avoided  his  eyes  as  she  replied  : 

"There  isn't  much  going  on  —  at  times.  It  gets 
—  lonesome." 

•  She  dropped  the  galley  with  a  loud  clatter;  it 
had  slipped  from  her  grasp.  They  both  reached 
for  it  at  the  same  moment.  Their  heads  came 
together. 

"I  think,"  said  the  boy  grimly,  "that  I'm  seeing 
more  stars  than  you  are  !" 

"That,"  she  replied,  "is  an  awful  exaggeration  !" 

They  laughed. 

A  few  days  later  Sam  came  into  the  front  office. 
He  was  only  a  young  man  in  those  days  —  we  were 
all  young  then  —  and  only  a  few  years  older  than 
Mary  Wood. 

"That  new  man  of  ours  is  falling  in  love  with 
that  Wood  girl  as  sure  as  the  Lord  made  cider 
apples  !  You  mark  me  !  The  son  of  a  gun  !  And 
I  was  just  on  the  point  of  falling  in  love  with  her 
myself." 

"He's  poorer  than  Job's  turkey,"  replied  Harriet 
Babcock  at  the  proofreader's  desk. 


THE   GREATER  GLORY  75 

"What  ice  does  that  cut  when  a  chap  gets  the 
girl  fever?"  demanded  Sam. 

"I  guess  Slug  Truman  will  have  something  to  say 
about  that,"  commented  Harriet.  "Wait  and  see. 
Heavens  and  earth !  Here  comes  Mrs.  Blake 
Whipple  with  her  list  of  actors  for  the  Odd  Fellows' 
play.  Let  me  duck !" 


CHAPTER   VSL 

IN  WHICH  WE  ATTEND  THE  REHEARSAL  OF  THE 
ODD  FELLOW'S  PLAY  AND  FROM  THE  WINGS 
WATCH  A  HERO  AND  HEROINE  INDUSTRIOUSLY 
FALLING  IN  LOVE 

THE  time  seemed  to  pass  quickly  after  Jack  came 
to  work  for  us  and  Daddy  Joe  began  nodding  approv 
ingly  when  he  saw  the  beautiful  head  of  little  Mary 
Wood  bent  over  the  forms  alongside  Jack  Purse's 
wavy  pompadour. 

We  do  not  recollect  where  that  winter  went, 
but  we  do  remember  very  well  that  play  the  Odd 
Fellows  gave  in  the  Opera  House.  It  is  embodied 
in  this  narrative  because  it  is  typical  of  amateur 
plays  everywhere  and  because  it  marked  another 
gala  night  in  the  Wood  girl's  life  and  led  afterward 
to  the  picnic  in  Gold-Piece  Cabin  up  the  Glen. 

It  came  about  that  the  first  wonderful  spring 
that  Jack  Purse  was  in  Paris,  a  handful  of  good 
women,  whose  altruism  and  untiring  endeavor  was 
the  backbone  of  the  social  life  in  our  community, 
stayed  after  the  regular  meeting  of  Rebekah  Lodge, 
No.  1533,  and  listened  to  the  proposal  advanced  by 
Mrs.  Blake  Whipple  under  the  enthusiastic  per 
suasion  of  none  other  than  Mibb  Henderson  of 
our  office.  Mrs.  Whipple  occupied  the  chair. 
Harriet  Babcock,  our  proofreader  and  office  girl, 
was  also  there  and  Mrs.  Ben  Williams,  wife  of  our 


THE   GREATER  GLORY  77 

local  clothier;  also  the  Blair  sisters,  spinsters,  who 
had  money  and  who  looked  and  dressed  as  near 
alike  as  two  peas.  Alice  Whiting  was  there,  the 
school  teacher  out  in  the  Green  Valley  who  afterward 
married  Sam  Hod  —  and  Grace  Rawlins  whose 
specialty  was  music  and  whose  disposition  was  not 
all  that  it  might  have  been.  Aunt  Julia  Farrington 
and  Mrs.  Ebenezer  Mathers  completed  the  com 
mittee,  women  who  usually  said  the  least  and  did 
the  most  work  at  any  given  public  function,  particu 
larly  the  ever-necessary  cleaning  up  afterward. 

"What  kind  of  a  play  could  we  give,  now?" 
ruminated  Mrs.  Whipple.  "You  know  it's  hard  to 
interest  the  men  folks;  usually  they  haven't  much 
time  to  memorize  parts  or  come  to  rehearsals." 

Old  Sol  Hopper,  the  janitor,  who  some  folks  said 
wasn't  quite  right  in  his  head,  sat  among  a  mass  of 
empty  seats  in  the  rear.  A  silence  following  Mrs. 
Whipple's  question,  old  man  Hopper  contributed 
the  opinion  that,  "  The  King  of  the  Cannibal  Islands  " 
wasn't  a  bad  show ;  he'd  seen  it  put  on  by  the  Odd 
Fellows  up  to  Wickford  and  a  pleasant  time  was  had 
by  all.  Grace  Rawlins  wanted  to  know  if  Hopper 
was  crazy  and  said  "The  King  of  the  Cannibal 
Islands"  called  for  a  cast  in  brown  tights.  Where 
upon  old  man  Hopper  retorted  "what  of  that?" 
and  the  assembled  matrons  turned  upon  him  to  a 
woman  and  Mrs.  Williams  reminded  him  that  his 
job  was  to  keep  the  furnace  coaled  and  the  hall 
clean  and  that  bar-room  pleasantries  were  entirely 
uncalled  for  in  a  business  session  of  perfect  ladies. 
W7hich  rather  dampened  Old  Man  Hopper's  en 
thusiasm  for  the  project  and  he  sloughed  down  onto 
the  small  of  his  back  and  meditated  darkly  on  the 
ingratitude  of  all  flesh. 


78  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

Alice  Whiting  mentioned  "East  Lynne"  but  Mrs. 
Whipple  declared  that  "East  Lynne"  was  played 
out.  Mrs.  Mathers  suggested  "  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin  " 
that  being  the  only  play  she  had  ever  witnessed  and 
her  acme  of  dramatic  attainment ;  but  Mrs.  Williams 
maintained  it  was  too  much  work  to  get  up  a  street 
parade.  Whereat  the  prospect  sagged.  Mrs.  Whip- 
pie  then  turned  suddenly  to  Harriet  and  demanded  to 
know  what  kept  them  from  putting  on  a  play  written 
as  well  as  acted  by  local  talent.  Who  had  more 
talent  and  training  for  that  chore  than  Harriet 
who  wrote  many  of  the  items  each  week  for  the 
paper  and  once  received  five  dollars  for  an  anecdote 
sent  to  the  Youth's  Companion.  Yes,  the  very  idea  ! 
Harriet  should  write  a  play. 

Harriet  blossomed  out  in  crimson  and  said  she 
could  never  do  it  in  the  wide,  wide  world.  But 
Harriet's  heart  was  going  pitapat  and  all  the  king's 
horses  and  all  the  king's  men  couldn't  have  dragged 
her  into  a  permanent  refusal.  So  they  had  to  spend 
fifteen  minutes  coaxing  her  and  at  the  end  of  that 
time  Harriet  agreed  to  write  a  play  and  Mrs. 
Whipple  agreed  to  continue  the  canvass  of  the  town 
and  see  who  would  be  willing  to  act  in  the  play  which 
Harriet  wrote. 

"We  ought  to  have  specialties  between  the  acts," 
said  Mrs.  Whipple.  "Some  one  ought  to  come  out 
and  sing  or  recite  something." 

Mrs.  Williams  suggested  getting  Doctor  John 
son's  wife  to  sing ;  she  carried  the  air  in  the  Metho 
dist  church.  But  Ophelia  Blair  said  the  doctor's 
wife  was  a  Methodist  and  didn't  believe  in  the  stage. 
And  then  they  suggested  Mrs.  Parker  Turner 
whose  husband  manages  the  gas  works.  But  the 
argument  was  advanced  that  Mrs.  Parker  Turner 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  79 

had  studied  music  for  a  year  in  New  York  and  would 
consider  it  beneath  her  dignity  to  appear  in  such  a 
vulgar  low-brow  capacity  as  a  between-the-acts 
feature  in  a  small-town  show.  It  ranked  her  with 
little  cigars  or  ventriloquists  or  ice  water. 

"We  needn't  lose  any  sleep  over  it,"  snapped 
Grace  Rawlins,  "because  if  worse  comes  to  worst 
we'll  get  Mibb  Henderson.  Leave  it  to  me  as  part 
of  the  music." 

Then  Mrs.  Whipple  said  :  "I  wonder  if  we  can  get 
Georgie  Griffin  to  help  us  with  rehearsals?  The 
Masons  had  him  last  year  in  their  minstrel  show!" 

"Sure  we'll  get  Georgie,"  declared  Clementine 
Blair.  "He's  property  man  at  the  Opera  House, 
and  if  we  rent  the  place,  we  rent  Georgie's  services." 

On  the  following  afternoon,  Mrs.  Blake  Whipple 
took  stock  of  herself  and  girded  up  her  loins  and 
applied  to  her  person  sundry  dashes  of  perfumery 
and  looked  at  the  back  of  her  head  with  a  hand 
mirror  and  was  sure  she  had  her  notebook  and  pencil. 
Then  she  ordered  the  smallest  boy  to  wipe  his  nose 
and  stop  hollering  and  she  sallied  forth  into  the 
byways  as  a  fisher  of  men. 

It  is  verbose  to  record  her  visits  of  that  afternoon 
or  the  amazing  amount  of  duties  demanding  un 
divided  attention  during  the  coming  month  on  the 
part  of  our  townspeople,  chiefly  male,  which  pre 
vented  them  from  demonstrating  their  dramatic 
ability.  But  Mrs.  Whipple  was  not  to  be  cast 
down.  She  was  one  of  those  who  set  their  faces  to 
the  stars  and  whose  voices  reply  from  far  up  the 
heights.  At  half -past  five  she  came  in  to  Harriet, 
and  to  the  playwright  she  handed  over  a  list  of  names 
of  the  anointed.  And  that  night  Harriet  took  the 
list  home  with  enough  copy  paper  to  write  a  three- 


80  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

decker  novel  and  enough  of  our  office  advertising 
pencils  to  rewrite  it  after  it  was  written. 

She  withdrew  to  her  room  and  took  all  the  things 
off  her  center  table  and  spread  thereon  last  week's 
copy  of  our  little  local  paper  and  fixed  the  light 
and  seated  herself  and  wooed  the  muse.  And  the 
pencils  were  indelible  pencils  and  Harriet  went  to 
bed  that  night  with  a  mouth  resembling  the  eating 
of  much  huckleberry  pie.  Which  is  mentioned  to 
emphasize  her  concentration.  She  wrote  an  outline 
of  her  play  the  first  night  and  tried  to  make  the  local 
characters  fit  in.  It  was  hopeless  and  she  tore  it 
up.  She  tried  it  again  on  the  second  night  and  was 
as  far  from  satisfaction  as  ever.  She  tried  again 
and  again  and  three  or  four  times  was  panic-stricken. 
Finally  she  jogged  up  her  pages  and  looked  her  work 
over  and  pronounced  it  good,  although  the  evening 
and  the  morning  were  the  sixth  day.  Sighing  in 
relief  she  affixed  to  the  top  of  her  manuscript  the 
highly-dramatic  title:  "Lady  Audrey's  Mistake." 

We  never  could  exactly  figure  out  just  what 
Lady  Audrey's  mistake  was,  —  unless  it  was  being 
dragged  into  the  play  at  all.  Because  Lady  Audrey 
was  more  sinned  against  than  sinning,  having  at 
divers  times  and  in  sundry  seasons  before  the  play 
opened  been  treated  roughly  by  a  party  in  a  waxed 
moustache  and  a  plug  hat  who  was  the  father  of 
her  daughter.  In  the  fullness  of  time  she  discovered 
herself  up  in  New  England  without  a  place  to  lay 
her  head  and  being  at  the  end  of  her  resources, 
moral,  financial  and  physical,  she  appealed  to 
strangers  for  assistance  and  repaid  their  goodly 
offices  by  dying  a  few  minutes  later  in  their  back 
kitchen.  Just  for  that  the  orphan  daughter  even 
tually  grew  up  into  an  appleblossoin  of  a  young 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  81 

thing  who  ran  away  to  the  city  and  almost  missed 
marrying  into  the  aristocracy  if  it  hadn't  been  dis 
covered  by  means  of  a  locket  that  she  was  of  the 
aristocracy  herself.  It  was  a  brilliant  and  original 
plot  and  Harriet  was  to  be  congratulated.  Which 
Harriet  was,  —  profusely. 

The  point  is  that  the  play  was  finished  and  duly 
read  by  Georgie  Griffin  and  the  rest,  although  it 
cannot  be  said  that  Georgie  approved  of  it  as  en 
thusiastically  as  the  cast  who  must  act  it.  Notices 
therefore  with  the  date  and  admission  prices  were 
duly  printed  in  our  paper  with  the  announcement 
prominent  at  the  bottom  that  homemade  candy 
would  be  on  sale  between  the  acts;  also  —  for 
our  opera  house  is  built  with  a  flat  floor  and  re 
movable  seats  for  just  this  purpose  —  that  the 
affair  would  be  followed  by  a  dance  at  which  ice 
cream  and  cake  would  be  procurable  for  a  considera 
tion.  Harriet  was  inclined  to  feel  peevish  about 
that  footnote.  Somehow  it  detracted  from  the 
quality  of  her  effort  and  grossly  commercialized 
the  drama.  We  suspect  that  Harriet  had  artistic 
temperament.  Such  things  have  happened. 

There  were  rehearsals  one  night  a  week  at  first  to 
which  everybody  came  late,  bringing  the  information 
that  they  hadn't  had  time  to  learn  their  parts  very 
well  but  would  do  better  next  week.  The  second 
week  so  many  folks  were  absent  that  Grace  Rawlins 
got  huffy  and  declared  that  if  no  more  interest  was 
going  to  be  taken  in  it  than  this  they  might  as  well 
chuck  it  all  up  right  here  and  now.  Georgie  agreed 
with  her,  using  the  spittoon  copiously,  and  said  he 
was  glad  to  see  somebody  in  the  bunch  showed  traces 
of  brains.  But  some  one  retorted  that  Grace  was  sore 
because  they  wouldn't  let  her  play  at  the  Woodman's 


82  THE   GREATER  GLORY 

dance  next  week  and  for  everybody  not  to  mind 
her  and  as  for  Georgie,  a  few  opinions  out  of  him  one 
way  or  another  would  never  have  any  effect  on  the 
world,  anyhow.  And  Mrs.Whipple  suggested  that 
rehearsals  be  held  twice  a  week  and  a  third  week 
there  was  some  semblance  of  a  company  who 
knew  at  least  one  quarter  of  their  parts.  The 
fourth  week  everybody  sent  in  word  that  they  knew 
their  parts  letter  perfect  and  could  say  them  in  their 
sleep.  But  a  great  sickness  began  to  seize  the  soul  of 
Mrs.  Whipple  because  the  advertisements  had  been 
running  for  days,  and  two  hundred  and  seven 
teen  tickets  had  been  sold  and  there  hadn't 
been  one  complete  rehearsal.  Then,  as  happens 
in  such  affairs  the  nation  over,  the  play  being 
scheduled  eight  weeks  ahead,  about  ten  days 
beforehand  everybody  put  in  an  appearance  at  once 
and  came  into  belated  action  with  such  a  whirlwind 
of  rehearsing  and  feverishness  of  preparation  that 
they  lost  their  manuscripts  and  their  cues  and  their 
tempers  and  blamed  every  one  else  for  everything; 
and  two  people  walked  out  cold  and  their  places  had 
to  be  filled  by  others,  and  one  girl  worked  so  hard 
over  her  lines  she  was  taken  sick  abed,  which  made 
her  mother  declare  that  the  pace  the  young  folks 
lived  these  days  was  a  caution  and  would  open  the 
eyes  of  the  dead. 

All  of  which  having  been  duly  set  down,  as  it  has 
been  written  in  the  book  of  the  prophets  since  the 
days  when  small  towns  and  Odd  Fellows  lodges 
and  depleted  treasuries  were  young,  brings  us  in  the 
course  of  things  to  Georgie  Griffin,  rehearsals  and 
eventually  romance,  —  for  Jack  Purse  and  Mary 
had  been  cast  to  play  the  leads  in  that  little  local 
talent  play. 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  83 

Georgie  was  a  bony,  undersized  little  fellow  as  hard 
as  nails  with  a  fluffy  down  on  his  jaw,  a  quid  of  to 
bacco  in  his  cheek  the  size  of  a  small  hen's  egg  and 
a  disposition  somewhat  soured  on  life  by  reason  of  the 
many  trials  and  sufferings  that  were  the  heritage  of 
his  profession.  He  installed  meters  for  the  gas 
company  daytimes  and  on  show  nights  acted  as 
property  man  at  our  only  playhouse.  Property 
man !  Georgie  Griffin  was  more.  Georgie  was  the 
whole  opera  house.  Ask  any  one  who  ever  tried  to 
put  on  a  show  there.  They'll  tell  you.  And  when 
they  get  through  telling  you,  you'll  understand. 

For  Georgie  had  artistic  temperament,  whether 
the  Babcock  girl  did  or  not,  —  an  awful  dose  of  it, 
which  is  an  extremely  unfortunate  thing  for  a  prop 
erty  man  in  an  opera  house  in  a  little  town,  particu 
larly  if  the  actors  be  local.  For  in  a  case  like  the 
present  one  Georgie  had  ideas  how  a  show  should  be 
put  on.  Furthermore  Georgie  had  full  control  over 
the  vocabulary  adequate  to  express  them.  Up  to 
Georgie  it  was  to  make  of  Harriet's  milksop  manu 
script  a  theatrical  knock-out. 

Now  Georgie  clothed  himself  by  day  and  also  by 
evening  in  a  pair  of  smudgy  white  overalls  the  size 
whereof  was  enormous  and  the  pockets  of  which  were 
popularly  supposed  to  con  tain  any  little  thing  wanted, 
from  a  pair  of  andirons  to  a  four-poster  bed.  He 
wore  a  blue  shirt,  the  collar  of  which  was  always 
turned  up  about  his  neck,  and  on  Georgie's  head  was 
an  over-sized  cap  which  came  down  to  his  ears. 
In  fact,  one  might  say  that  no  one  would  ever  look 
upon  him  and  then  confuse  him  with  any  one  else. 

Having  been  bribed  and  bought  and  complimented 
and  labored  with  he  had  eventually  assented  to  act  as 
stage  director  and  general  supervising  dramatist. 


84  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

Therefore  he  procured  a  kitchen  table  from  regions 
back  stage  —  or  it  may  have  been  his  overalls  - 
and  came  grunting  out  with  it.  He  planked  it  in  the 
center  of  the  platform  as  close  to  the  footlights  as  it 
would  go  without  sliding  over  into  the  pit  of  the 
orchestra  and  spilling  Georgie  off  onto  the  pianist's 
head.  Then  he  went  behind  the  scenes  again  and 
returned  with  a  cuspidor  nearly  as  large  as  himself, 
which  he  set  down  on  the  floor  conveniently  at  hand, 
sampled  it  a  couple  of  times  to  see  that  it  was  working 
properly,  and  finding  it  was,  called  the  courageous 
to  the  chalk  mark. 

Georgie  sweat  and  he  swore  and  emptied  his  soul 
of  sarcasm  and  his  mouth  of  tobacco  juice.  He 
waved  the  manuscript  and  he  waved  the  ham 
mer  ;  he  jumped  off  the  table  a  dozen  times  a  minute 
and  he  jumped  back  again.  His  initiative  was  phe 
nomenal.  As  an  illustration :  when  no  live  baby 
could  be  procured  for  Lady  Audrey  to  carry  in  re 
hearsals  he  substituted  a  sofa  pillow.  And  the 
spectacle  of  an  emaciated  woman  falling  into  the 
door  of  a  farmhouse  in  the  last  stages  of  collapse, 
going  through  four  minutes  of  "  heaven-will-care-f or- 
the-child"  doggerel  and  then  blandly  handing  over  a 
sofa  pillow  with  a  six-inch  rip  in  the  stuffing  shrieked 
to  high  heaven  for  applause.  The  funny  part  of  it 
was  that  Georgie  never  saw  that  it  was  funny. 

Jack  Purse  had  been  cast  for  the  hero's  part,  and 
because  she  had  the  time  and  the  conscientiousness 
to  devote  to  it,  and  because  by  such  situations  are 
the  whole  courses  of  our  lives  affected,  Mary 
Wood  was  cast  for  the  heroine.  That  little 
local  talent  play !  How  strange  that  it  should  have 
been  proposed  just  then. 

The  first  act  of  "Lady  Audrey's  Mistake"  was 


THE  GREATER  GLORY  85 

divided  into  two  parts.  The  first  was  given  over  to 
that  much  abused  lady's  demise  and  the  bequest  of 
her  offspring  to  the  good-hearted  strangers. 

Then  the  curtain  came  down  for  three  minutes, 
supposed  to  represent  the  passing  of  two  decades 
while  the  orphaned  child  grew  to  maturity. 

When  the  first  half  of  the  act  had  been  concluded 
somewhere  near  to  Georgie's  satisfaction,  the  cur 
tain  arose  on  the  real  beginning  of  the  story,  twenty 
years  after.  Mary,  in  the  role  of  the  girl  who  was  to 
be  enticed  away  to  the  city  by  the  villain,  was  dis 
covered  sitting  in  the  kitchen.  On  should  come 
the  hero  and  make  love  to  her,  —  love  which  was 
true  love  indeed  because  it  was  not  destined  to  run 
smooth.  And  Jack  came  on. 

"  Come  on  now  !  Come  on  now  ! "  ordered  Georgie 
from  his  table-top.  "Get  busy  with  the  love  stuff. 
Come  up  behind  her  and  give  her  a  kiss,  when  she 
don't  expect  it.  Make  it  a  humdinger  so  the  whole 
house  won't  mistake  it  —  like  an  old  she-cow 
pulling  her  hoof  out  of  a  bog.  You're  in  love  with 
each  other,  ain't  yer  ?  Well,  well,  mix  together  as 
though  you  had  sunstroke." 

Jack  looked  into  the  girl's  eyes  and  the  girl 
blushed  crimson. 

"In  the  play  I  mean  !"  added  Georgie. 

"Yes,"  whispered  the  girl. 

"Well  then,  act  like  lovers  and  not  like  a  couple 
of  elephants  tryin'  to  cuddle  down  together  in  a  coal 
hod.  Start  in,  Jack  Purse !  Git  your  hands  blind 
ing  her  eyes  and  then  get  in  your  lovin'  properly. 
Cripes  !  You  act  as  if  you  was  scared  of  her.  Does 
she  bite?" 

Jack  went  out  as  he  was  bidden.  He  came  softly 
in  on  tip  toe.  He  stole  his  fingers  around  the  girl's 


86  THE   GREATER.  GLORY 

eyes.  As  she  dropped  the  pan  in  her  lap,  he  kissed 
her. 

It  was  only  a  stage  kiss,  a  kiss  in  a  play.  But  it 
was  the  first  kiss  he  had  ever  given  her.  The  blood 
pounded  strong  in  his  temples  when  he  had  given  it. 
For  the  scent  of  her  hair  and  her  soft  flesh  was  in  his 
senses.  He  was  muddled  and  clumsy  and  confused 
when  Mary  turned  to  confront  him,  —  as  she  was 
supposed  to  confront  him  in  the  play.  His  eyes 
dropped.  He  could  not  meet  her  gaze. 

"Do  it  over  again!"  interrupted  Georgie.  "Do 
it  without  actin'  as  if  it  was  a  public  misdemeanor  !" 

The  little  girl  flushed  furiously  and  tried  it  again. 
Grace  Rawlins  got  huffy  and  wanted  to  know  whether 
this  was  a  play  or  a  game  of  postoffice,  and  Dick 
Robinson  said  it  was  no  wonder  some  chaps  would 
consent  to  play  hero  parts  for  nothing,  and  young 
Sam  Hod  declared  that  some  guys  were  born  lucky 
anyhow.  And  all  the  time  something  in  the  touch 
of  the  girl  was  calling  to  something  deep  in  the  boy, 
something  he  had  never  felt  before,  something  he 
could  hardly  understand.  And  through  the  rest  of 
that  play  and  that  rehearsal  there  seemed  a  strange 
intimacy  between  himself  and  Mary  Wood.  When, 
in  the  last  act  and  just  before  the  final  curtain,  he 
took  the  girl  in  his  arms,  he  hated  the  brazen  publicity 
of  it  all.  She  was  soft  and  delicate  and  fragile  and 
sweet  to  his  embrace,  and  again  and  again  when  he 
had  gone  home  to  his  room  at  night  he  lived  over  and 
over  those  moments. 

On  the  last  night  before  the  play  he  arrived  late  at 
his  own  boarding  place  after  seeing  Mary  to  her  gate. 
He  parted  the  curtains  and  stood  looking  out  over 
the  soft  sleeping  village  swathed  in  romantic  moon 
light.  A  strange  pain,  an  uneasiness,  a  weird,  wild 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  87 

dissatisfaction  filled  him.  It  seemed  as  though,  he 
wanted  to  walk  on  and  on  all  night.  Action,  mot  ion, 
were  the  only  things  which  could  ever  end  his  awful 
nervousness.  Over  and  over  he  saw  the  girl's  face 
before  him  as  he  drew  her  to  him  in  the  play  !  the 
brown  eyes  with  the  lovelight  in  them — and  the  dare 
and  the  deviltry,  although  a  good  little  deviltry  —  and 
he  was  made  frantic  with  sudden  heart-hunger  and 
longing  for  her  in  some  other  way  than  theatrical 
make-believe. 

"Mary!  Mary!"  he  cried.  "I've  only  known 
you  just  a  little  while.  But  it's  the  truth,  Mary 
Wood  !  —  I  love  you  !  And  to-morrow  night  —  to 
morrow  night  the  play  will  be  over  and  a  memory  of 
the  past.  After  that  —  !  Oh  Mary !  I'm  going 
to  have  you  !  I'm  going  to  have  you  !  —  somehow  ! 
—  for  my  own  —  forever  !  poor  little  play  !  Will  I 
ever  forget  'Lady  Audrey's  Mistake'?" 

It  was  plain  however  that  Georgie  Griffin  held  no 
such  temperamental  sentiments  about  "Lady Audrey's 
Mistake."  On  that  same  night  that  Jack  was  walk 
ing  home  through  the  New  England  moonlight  with 
Mary  he  sat  on  a  trunk  back  in  the  opera  house  and 
pounded  aimlessly  and  morosely  on  its  front  with  his 
property  hammer  dangling  between  his  knees. 

"Act?  If  this  bunch  was  to  goto  N'  York, there 
ain't  one  in  the  whole  flock  could  get  an  engagement 
as  *  shouts  outside '  or  a  '  dead  body  ' !  And  when 
it  comes  to  applause,  we'll  be  lucky  if  some  yellow 
dog  will  only  wander  in  and  wag  his  tail !  " 

There  were  indications  it  was  going  to  be  a  great 
return  of  value  for  the  admission  money. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

IN  WHICH  HERO  AND  HEROINE  IN  THE  ROLE  OF 
PLAY-ACTORS  WIN  THE  VILLAGE  APPLAUSE  AND 
THERE  COMES  A  DANCE  AFTERWARD. 

THE  great  night  of  the  play  arrived.  At  eight 
o'clock  high  school  boys  in  their  old-fashioned  Sunday 
go-to-meetin'  clothes  were  ushering  fathers,  mothers, 
brothers  and  sisters,  and  aunts  and  uncles  and 
spinisters  and  bachelors  and  the  strangers  within 
the  gates,  to  their  places.  In  the  big  auditorium 
there  was  much  clumping  down  of  seats  and  ladies 
unwinding  scarfs  from  the  heads  and  men  standing 
up  here  and  there  to  pull  off  overcoats  and  noisy 
rustling  of  programs  printed  that  afternoon  at 
our  little  printing  office,  and  the  town  crank  damning 
the  house  and  performance  and  solar  system  generally 
because  he'd  been  given  a  seat  with  a  broken  ^ire 
hat-rack  beneath  his  cosmos,  to  hold  a  hat  that  at 
home  was  hung  upon  the  floor. 

But  if  there  was  hustle  and  bustle  and  thrilling 
expectancy  out  in  front,  what  was  it  behind  on  the 
stage?  Mrs.  Christopher  Stacy  had  been  given 
Lady  Audrey's  part  because  she  had  the  proper 
tragedy  in  her  temperament  by  special  endowment 
from  nature,  and  not  much  else,  and  a  willingness  to 
stay  where  she  was  put  and  not  offer  advice.  She 
was  weak  in  the  knees  and  ill  in  the  stomach  because 
she  was  the  first  person  to  go  on  and  every  line  of  her 
part  had  fled  from  her  head  and  would  not  return 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  89 

regardless  of  how  much  she  applied  herself  to  her 
manuscript. 

Mrs.  Whipple  was  moving  around  among  the 
players  and  stage  hands  in  her  make-up,  and  people 
who  had  known  her  since  infancy  were  staring  at  her 
and  asking  who  the  strange  woman  was  anyhow ;  for 
the  sallow  yellow  of  Mrs.  Whipple's  countenance  had 
fled  before  the  application  of  grease-paint  and  pencil 
ing,  and  Mrs.  Blake  Whipple  was  not  Mrs.  Blake 
Whipple  at  all,  but  a  girl  of  sweet  sixteen  whose 
youth  had  been  renewed  like  the  eagle's  ;  and  some  of 
the  women  were  asking  nastily  where  she  had  ever 
learned  to  make  up  like  that  and  she  must  have  had 
a  past. 

Chubb  Barber  the  shoeman,  who  agreed  with 
everybody  and  never  ran  an  ad  in  our  paper  that  cost 
more  than  forty  cents,  and  who  was  to  play  the  irate 
foster  parent,  was  monopolizing  the  peekhole  in  the 
curtain  and  beholding  the  size  of  the  audience  grow 
ing  ever  greater,  and  agreeing  with  everybody  and 
wetting  his  lips  and  wishing  to  Gawd  he  was  home. 
Mrs.  Hoadley,  the  barber's  wife,  was  there,  sitting 
around  on  things  always  needed  next  to  dress  the 
stage  and  jouncing  on  her  nervous  knee  the 
momentous  little  Rollin  Hoadley  who  was  the  cause 
of  it  all,  and  who  was  to  be  carried  right  on  and  right 
off  very  carefully,  and  who  had  been  loaned  after 
much  coaxing.  Most  of  the  boys  were  out  on  the 
fire-escapes,  smoking  in  the  reviving  coolness  of  the 
evening  and  fortifying  themselves  for  the  ordeal 
ahead.  Everywhere  was  confusion  and  the  giving 
of  orders  which  no  one  executed,  and  proffering  of 
help  where  it  was  least  needed,  and  advice  and  sar 
casm  and  turmoil  and  a  time  of  trouble  such  as  there 
never  has  been  since  there  was  a  nation. 


90  THE   GREATER  GLORY 

But  Georgia  was  there !  And  Georgie  was  boss  ! 
But  alas  !  —  how  empty  is  public  honor.  For  never 
in  all  the  lengths  and  breadths  and  depths  of  time  or 
infinity  had  there  been  such  an  occasion  as  this  where 
the  answer  to  every  snarl  was  that  since-coined 
phrase  !  "Let  George  do  it ! " 

George  was  doing  it  or  it  didn't  get  done. 

He'd  hired  old  Peter  Ferguson  to  come  in  and  help 
with  the  "props."  But  before  showing  up  for  work 
Peter  had  stopped  en  route  and  looked  upon  the  wine 
when  it  was  red  and  allowed  it  to  sting  him  like  a 
serpent  and  bite  him  like  an  adder.  And  so  Peter 
wasn't  good  for  much  but  to  say  "yes,  sir"  and  then 
forget  what  Georgie  had  told  him. 

Georgie  was  an  overworked  man.  Somehow  when 
he  grabbed  hold  of  a  piece  of  scenery  and  juggled  it 
across  the  floor  he  had  the  appearance  of  a  man 
grabbing  hold  of  the  Woolworth  building  to  keep  it 
upright  in  a  high  wind.  He  sent  sundry  persons  out 
after  things  which  they  brought  back  late  or  did  not 
bring  back  at  all,  so  that  Georgie  was  fated  to  forget 
that  ladies  were  present  and  indulge  in  strong  phrases. 
At  twenty-five  minutes  to  nine  the  house  was  packed 
and  the  boys  in  the  gallery  were  giving  catcalls  and 
Grace  Rawlins  had  been  back-stage  twice  to  inform 
him  that  the  bunch  out  front  was  getting  out  of  con 
trol  and  why  in  Sam  Hill  didn't  Georgie  get  a  move 
on  himself  and  what  did  he  think  this  was  anyway,  — 
a  Jew  picnic  ?  Georgie  had  retorted  that  if  she  didn't 
like  his  speed  she  could  do  it  herself  and  if  that 
didn't  suit  her,  she  knew  where  she  could  go.  And 
Grace  had  retorted  that  if  it  wasn't  for  hurting 
people's  feelings  she  might  open  her  mouth  and  say 
something,  and  Georgie  had  replied  it  wouldn't  be 
anything  new,  and  Grace  slammed  out  into  the 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  91 

auditorium  again  to  smile  at  every  one  and  act  busy 
at  the  piano  as  if  she'd  gotten  instructions  to  go 
ahead,  which  she  hadn't. 

At  ten  minutes  to  nine  the  fathers  out  front  were 
publicly  asking  if  they'd  forgotten  back  of  the  cur 
tain  that  there  were  heads  of  families  in  the  place 
who  had  to  get  some  sleep  before  morning,  and  on  the 
stage  Mrs.  Hoadley  was  overheard  by  struggling, 
swearing  Georgie  to  say  that  if  he  didn't  hurry  up 
she'd  have  to  take  baby  home,  because  baby  wasn't 
used  to  being  out  so  late  nights.  And  then,  just 
when  the  town  cut-up  out  front  had  let  out  an 
agonizing  yawn  that  was  heard  all  over  the  place  and 
received  a  laugh,  the  orchestra  lamps  blinked  and 
saved  Grace  Rawlins'  life,  and  she  said  thank  Gawd 
and  broke  out  into  the  overture  and  played  it,  and  the 
curtain  worked  by  old  Peter  Ferguson  in  the  scenery 
loft  lifted  on  a  stage  wherein  Mibb,  in  the  capacity 
of  the  foster  mother,  was  cooking  industriously  and 
waiting  for  the  door  to  be  opened  violently  on 
tragedy. 

In  all  of  the  rehearsals,  Mrs.  Stacy  in  the  capacity 
of  Lady  Audrey  had  died  and  bequeathed  to  her  kind- 
hearted  friends  the  half-disemboweled  sofa  pillow. 
This  now  was  the  real  thing  and  requiring  a  real  baby ; 
the  curtain  was  up  and  waiting ;  Mibb  was  singing 
about  her  work  and  waiting  for  the  fatal  knock ;  Lady 
Audrey  was  bolstered  up  with  smelling  salts  and  a  glass 
of  cold  water  and  approached  the  Hoadley  woman  to 
get  the  illegitimate  progeny.  But  out  in  front  the 
tittering  and  expectant  audience  suddenly  heard  a 
peal  of  infantile  despair  as  though  somebody's  off 
spring  was  being  strangled.  That  baby  wasn't  going 
to  leave  the  Hoadley  woman,  not  if  it  knew  it.  And 
it  calculated  that  it  did. 


92  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

"  What  am  I  going  to  do,  I  can't  take  it  on  kicking 
and  shrieking  like  this  !"  declared  Mrs.  Stacy. 

"Choke  it!"  suggested  Georgie.  And  if  looks 
would  have  killed,  the  young  one  would  have  ceased 
to  exist  on  the  spot. 

Again  Mrs.  Stacy  assayed  to  borrow  the  baby.  It 
planted  a  number  one  foot  in  the  hollow  of  her  left 
cheek  and  howled  like  an  Apache. 

"What  are  we  going  to  do?"  cried  Mary  in 
alarm.  "The  curtain's  up  and  the  audience  is 
waiting !" 

"We  ought  to  have  thought  of  this  before  !"  cried 
Mrs.  Whipple.  Then  to  Georgie:  "Is  there  a  big 
doll  in  the  house  we  can  use  in  its  place  ?"  Thereat 
the  assembled  players  turned  to  Georgie  as  though  he 
might  have  such  a  thing  in  his  white  overalls. 

"There  is  not!"  declared  Georgie.  "If  that  brat 
won't  consent  to  let  itself  be  borrowed,  why  we  simply 
got  to  leave  it  keep  its  mother.  Mis'  Hoadley'll  have 
to  go  on  and  play  Lady  Audrey  herself  !  " 

Then  it  was  the  mother's  turn  to  have  a  con 
vulsion. 

Georgie  was  equal  to  the  occasion.  He  told  her  all 
she  had  to  do  was  stagger  across  the  stage  and  die  on 
the  sofa  and  leave  it  to  Mibb's  initiative  to  make 
up  the  impromptu  lines  for  the  lack  of  Lady  Audrey's 
speech.  But  Mrs.  Hoadley  was  obdurate. 

And  all  the  time  the  baby  was  yelling  its  head  off 
and  some  boys  up  in  the  gallery  were  stamping  on  the 
floor. 

Georgie  realized  with  a  great  realization  it  was  up 

to  him  to  do  something  and  he  did  it.     He  grabbed 

hold  of  the  Hoadley  woman  —  bawling  child  and  all 

-  opened  the  canvas  door  and  shoved  her  through. 

Then  he  planked  his  foot  against  it  so  she  couldn't 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  93 

get  back.  The  astounded  and  flabbergasted  Mrs. 
Hoadley  found  herself  for  once  in  the  public  eye  in  a 
manner  that  from  the  standpoint  of  her  feelings  ought 
to  have  put  that  eye  out.  And  the  audience  was 
treated  to  the  spectacle  of  a  woman  with  a  bawling 
infant  assisted  violently  into  the  stage  kitchen  by  a 
party  prominent  in  white  overalls  and  the  door 
slapped  shut  in  a  manner  that  rocked  the  scenery. 
Then  the  baby  quit  as  promptly  as  it  had  begun,  and 
to  the  uttermost  parts  of  that  house  penetrated  ap 
parently  the  opening  line  of  the  play  : 

"My  Gawd!  If  Jim  Hoadley  knew  I  was  here, 
he'd  rip  this  place  into  tatters  !  " 

Which  considering  that  Jimmy  Hoadley  never  did 
anything  more  spectacular  than  post  bills  for  a  living, 
struck  Paris  as  rather  overdrawn. 

Hoarse  whispers  advised  Mibb  what  the  trouble 
was,  and  she  rose  to  the  dilemma. 

"Have  you  no  friends,  my  good  woman?"  she 
asked  earnestly. 

"No!  If  I  had,"  retorted  the  Hoadley  woman, 
"they'd  take  Georgie  Griffin  out  and  lynch  him  !  " 

It  was  several  moments  before  order  was  restored. 

"Come,  rest  awhile,  my  dear,"  struggled  Mibb 
bravely   onward.     Then   in   an   undertone :   ' 
Please  don't  spoil  the  play  at  the  start,  Amy !     Do 
your  best  for  the  sake  of  the  rest  of  us." 

The  appeal  in  Mibb's  voice  softened  the  Hoadley 
woman  somewhat  and  for  a  wonder  her  baby  kept 
quiet.  She  looked  back  and  saw  her  retreat  cut  off 
and  for  the  sake  of  the  ugly  predicament  of  the  rest 
she  decided  to  pull  things  through  somehow. 

"All  right,"  she  agreed.  Then  aloud  and  to  the 
stark  astonishment  of  the  rest  on  the  other  side  the 
set:  "He's  deserted  me!  He's  deserted  me  !"  she 


94  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

suddenly  cried.  And  she  staggered  magnificently 
across  to  the  sofa. 

It  was  the  audience's  turn  to  gasp.  The  Hoadley 
woman's  last  audible  reference  had  been  to  Georgie 
Griffin,  and  Paris  batted  the  public  eye.  Was  she 
referring  perhaps  to  Jim  Hoadley.  The  Hoadley 
woman's  name  was  not  on  the  program.  Was  a 
juicy  bit  of  dramatic  scandal  being  promulgated? 
It  was  an  awful  half-moment ! 

"Gripes!"  said  Georgie  weakly,  "I  see  where  I 
need  a  drink  !  " 

But  the  Hoadley  woman  went  on : 

"He  deserted  me  and  left  me  penniless.  I'm  sick 
and  dying.  Have  pity  on  a  poor  unfortunate  sister 
and  care  for  my  child.  Heaven  will  reward  you  !  — 

and  about  its  neck  you  will  find  a  locket  that  —  that 

»» 

"Yes,  yes!"  cried  Mibb.  "That  what,  my 
dear?" 

"That  identifies  it  so  that  we  can  kill  it  to 
morrow  !  "  bawled  Georgie  from  the  wings. 

But  the  Hoadley  woman  had  fallen  back  ap 
parently  dead ! 

"The  poor,  poor  motherless  little  thing  !  "  went  on 
Mibb,  picking  up  the  threads  of  her  mangled  lines. 
And  she  went  to  take  the  infant  from  the  apparently 
deceased  mother's  arms. 

But  would  that  brat  consent  to  be  taken  by  Mibb 
any  more  than  by  Mrs.  Stacy  ?  Not  on  your  grand 
mother's  tintype !  Mibb  acquired  it  by  the  laying 
on  of  hands  but  it  was  like  picking  up  a  twelve- 
pound  chunk  of  howling  wildcat.  That  child  knew 
it  was  on  the  stage  and  hogged  the  scene  with 
every  last  trick  of  a  cheap  actor.  Mibb  tried  to  com 
fort  it  and  get  a  word  in  between  breaths.  The  other 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  95 

players  came  on  as  they  were  supposed  to  come  on, 
but  not  a  word  could  get  across  the  footlights.  That 
infant  kicked  and  fought  and  squealed.  The  scene 
was  finished  somehow  in  a  pandemonium  of  terrific 
bawls ;  and  Mibb  got  white-faced  fearing  it  would 
go  into  convulsions'.  Slug  Truman  suggested  she  lay 
it  on  its  stomach,  and  Georgie  Griffin  from  behind 
made  some  frightfully  suggestive  pantomime  with  his 
property  hammer,  and  all  the  mothers  in  the  audience 
said  it  was  a  shame  to  abuse  a  child  so  but  what  could 
you  expect  from  that  Hoadley  woman,  —  she  never 
had  a  brain  in  her  head  anyhow.  Again  it  was  up  to 
Georgie  to  do  something  and  again  Georgie  did  it. 

"Run  dowTn  the  curtain  !  "  he  ordered. 

The  curtain  was  lowered,  but  did  that  child  notice 
it  ?  No.  It  was  a  very  peevish  child  and  set  in  its 
ways.  Its  mother  leaped  up,  once  the  curtain  had 
fallen,  and  took  it  and  patted  it  on  the  back  and  laid 
it  over  her  shoulder  and  said  let  her  get  out  and  take 
it  home,  and  Georgie  said  yes  for  Gawd's  sake  let  her. 
And  the  Hoadley  woman  postponed  settling  with 
Georgie  until  a  more  auspicious  time  and  the  audience 
followed  that  child  in  all  its  journeyings  for  the  next 
three  minutes,  twice  around  the  stage  and  downstairs 
to  where  the  mother  got  her  wraps,  and  down  the 
stairs  outside  and  along  the  wall  of  the  opera  house 
under  the  east  windows,  and  down  the  street  until  a 
merciful  distance  made  the  episode  only  a  nightmare. 

And  Uncle  Joe  Fodder  in  the  front  row  remarked 
that  "Out  of  the  mouths  of  babes  and  sucklings  the 
Lord  may  have  ordained  truth  ;  but  not  that  Hoadley 
suckling !  It  was  a  delusion  and  a  snare  and  un 
doubtedly  would  end  its  days  on  the  gallows  !  " 

There  were  many  other  incidents  in  that  play, 
amusing  enough  if  told  at  length,  but  they  have  no 


96  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

vital  bearing  on  our  story.  Jack  came  in  and  sur 
prised  Mary  —  he  caressed  her  as  per  schedule,  in 
which  some  boys  in  the  gallery  assisted  with  shrill 
whistles.  He  went  through  the  usual  pabulum  of  an 
amateur  play,  stiffly  and  awkwardly  and  frightened 
half  out  of  his  senses.  Frank  Whitcomb,  who  was 
messenger  and  boy  of  all  work  in  Amos  Farmers* 
bank,  entered  in  the  capacity  of  villain  and  enticed 
Mary  away  to  the  city.  The  Henderson  girl  sang 
her  songs  between  the  acts.  In  the  second  act 
young  Sam  Hod  nearly  upset  the  scenery  by  catching 
his  toe  under  a  corner  while  coining  on  at  a  run, 
and  between  the  second  and  third  acts  tragedy  was 
narrowly  averted  when  some  one  needed  a  barrel  and 
didn't  know  what  to  do  with  the  property  tinware  it 
contained,  and  Georgie  told  them  to  lift  up  the  trap 
door  in  the  stage  and  dump  it  into  regions  below; 
and  some  one  did  and  Colonel  Jethro  Wilson  was 
down  there  underneath  the  trap  door  "seeing  what 
he  could  see"  and  got  the  whole  five-and-ten-cent 
store  poured  merrily  on  his  head. 

The  Henderson  girl  sang  her  songs  between  the 
acts  !  Yes,  Mibb  sang  that  night  and  we  have  never 
forgotten  her  singing  because  of  the  song  which  she 
sang.  It  was  "Silver  Threads  Among  the  Gold." 

"Silver  Threads  Among  the  Gold  "  !  How  she  sang 
it !  The  audience  had  hooted  and  laughed  at  the 
rest  of  the  little  local  talent  play.  But  they  did  not 
hoot  and  laugh  at  Mibb's  part  in  that  entertainment. 
The  girl's  full  rich  contralto  put  a  sweetness  and  a 
haunting  melancholy  into  the  lines  and  the  melody 
which  filled  the  eyes  of  old  Uncle  Joe  Fodder  with 
tears.  For  Uncle  Joe  had  heard  it  in  a  younger  and 
a  happier  day,  —  like  many  a  gray -head  in  that 
audience.  But  the  Henderson  girl  never  knew  of  her 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  97 

power  and  her  gift,  or  if  she  knew,  she  did  not  care. 
It  was  very  quiet  in  that  hall  when  Mibb  finished  the 
ballad. 

In  the  last  act,  too,  after  Jack  had  rescued  his  hero 
ine  for  the  last  time  from  the  toils  of  the  villain,  the 
curtain  did  not  respond  (for  verily  old  Peter  Ferguson 
had  fallen  asleep  in  the  scenery  loft  under  the  sooth 
ing  influence  of  the  strong  liquor  by  which  he  was 
ensnared) .  The  perplexed  audience  was  still  further 
perplexed  by  sight  of  Georgie  Griffin  appearing 
suddenly  in  the  middle  of  the  stage  where  the  final 
love  scene  was  in  process  and  shouting  "Damn 
your  immortal  soul,  send  down  that  curtain  ! "  and 
firing  his  property  hammer  insanely  up  into  the  wings. 
This  brought  down  the  curtain  in  one  titanic  flop, 
as  though  all  the  strings  had  been  cut  and  it  had  fallen 
from  the  skies.  But  every  one  declared  that  Georgie 
Griffin  always  thought  himself  smart  anyhow  and 
what  could  you  expect  if  he  took  it  into  his  head  to 
show  off,  and  Uncle  Joe  Fodder  remarked  that  all  the 
cast  appeared  to  lack  was  memory,  concentration 
and  self-confidence;  outside  of  that  it  was  all 
right  and  the  play  was  a  riot. 

Then  as  per  the  advertising,  the  boys  cleared  the 
auditorium  of  seats  and  Grace  Rawlins  and  Uncle 
Joe  Fodder  took  their  places ;  she  before  the  piano, 
he  beside  her  with  his  famous  old  violin,  and  we  held 
the  dance. 

Mary  Wood  danced  with  Jack  Purse  that  night. 
She  danced  more  than  once  with  him.  And  by  the 
strange  subtle  telepathy  which  exists  between 
youth,  it  was  accepted  that  the  new  Jack  Purse  was 
Mary  Wood's  "fellow"  and  the  new  Mary  Wood  was 
Jack  Purse's  "girl."  And  the  elders  smiled,  for  they 
were  a  pretty  pair  —  Jack  and  the  Wood  girl.  And 


98  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

the  boys  shrugged  their  shoulders;  and  the  girls 
pretended  not  to  mind.  Round  and  round  in  a 
dreamy  waltz  Jack  swung  her,  her  body  bending 
against  his  own,  her  eyes  half-closed,  her  heart 
beating  rhythmically  to  the  young  printer's,  who  held 
her  close. 

She  laughed  a  bit  sadly  as  they  sat  down  along  the 
side  of  the  hall  between  dances  and  she  fanned  her 
self  with  her  handkerchief. 

"I'm  sorry  it's  over,"  she  said.  "It's  been  a  lot 
of  fun;  I'll  always  have  it  to  think  of  —  this  little 
local-talent  play.  Somehow  my  good  times  in  Paris 
seem  to  have  begun  since  you  came  here,  Jack." 

Jack  sat  silently.  A  strange  pain  disturbed  him, 
for  the  feel  of  her  kisses  was  still  hot  upon  his  lips  and 
the  press  of  her  soft  yielding  body  in  the  waltzes  was 
still  in  his  senses. 

"Look  at  Jack!"  laughed  Sam  Hod.  "Clean  off 
his  ballast  in  love !  If  ever  there  was  a  case  of  love 
at  first  sight  it  was  that  pair.  And  the  girl's  as 
addled  over  the  boy  as  the  boy  is  over  the  girl. 
Just  look !  —  look  at  his  hands,  his  necktie,  his 
knees,  his  feet!  Gad,  what  a  wreck  love  makes  of 
a  man ! " 

Jack  left  the  girl  by  the  wall  while  he  went  to 
bring  her  a  glass  of  water.  And  Mary  Wood  sud 
denly  felt  a  pluck  at  her  sleeve.  She  turned  to  find 
Herb  Truman. 

"I  wanner  see  you,  Mary!"  he  said  thickly,  "I 
jus'  got  to  see  you  alone!" 

"What's  the  matter,  Herbert?" 

"I  jus'  got  to  see  you  alone.     I  mean  it." 

"Herbert,  you're  ill!" 

"Can't  I  see  you  alone  —  most  anywheres?" 

She  arose  and  followed  him  outside. 


CHAPTER  IX 

So  HEKE  THEN  WE  HAVE  THE  PROBLEM  OLD  AS 
EDEN  ITSELF,  AS  TO  WHICH  IT  Is  BETTER  To  Do, 
CHOOSE  POVERTY  WITH  LOVE  OR  RICHES  WITH 
DISSATISFACTION-- WHICH  THE  WOOD  GIRL 
SOLVES  AFTER  THE  MANNER  OF  HER  HEART,  WITH 
RESULTS  FAR-REACHING  IN  AFTER  YEARS  BE 
CAUSE  OF  WHICH  WE  HAVE  A  STORY. 

THEY  went  out  of  the  Opera  House  and  across  the 
street  and  into  the  "Common"  where  the  moths 
were  winging  around  the  sputtering,  old-fashioned 
arc-lights,  which  threw  pleasant  shadows  amid  the 
shrubbery.  They  found  a  settee  —  a  hideous  fancy- 
iron  settee  —  and  they  sat  down  and  Mary  waited 
anxiously.  Across  the  street,  high  in  the  hall,  the 
music  struck  up  in  another  waltz. 

"I've  got  to  be  going  back,  Herbert,"  she  said. 
"Jack  will  be  surprised  not  to  find  me  when  he 
returns.  What  was  it  you  wanted?" 

He  took  off  his  cap  and  the  cowlick  rose  terrifically.- 
He  twisted  the  cap  in  his  hands.  He  was  pitiful  in 
his  misery.  "  You  /"  he  blurted  out. 

"  Me  ?     What  do  you  mean,  Herbert  ?  " 

"You!"  he  cried  doggedly.  "You  kissed  him 
on  the  stage  in  front  o'  everybody.  You  been 
lettin'  him  dance  most  every  dance  with  you !  I 
know  I  got  awful  feet  but  — " 

She  wanted  to  laugh  but  could  not. 


100  THE  GREATER  GLORY 

"You've  forgotten  me  since  he  came  to  work  over 
to  the  Telegraph  office,"  Herb  said,  his  eyes  averted. 

"Oh,  Herbert,"  cried  the  girl  softly,  "what  can 
I  say?  What  can  I  do?" 

"I  kind  o'  thought,  when  you  lemme  kiss  you  that 
night  in  my  house  — 

"Dear  Herbert,  it  was  wicked  of  me  to  have  done 
that,  —  to  have  encouraged  you.  I've  thought 
about  it  and  thought  about  it  and  wondered  what 
I  could  do  to  make  amends.  But  I've  always  de 
cided  that  to  try  to  make  amends  would  only  fix 
a  bad  matter  worse.  I  just  hoped  you'd  forgive  me 
and  overlook  it." 

"Then  I  take  it  there  ain't  no  chance." 

"If  you  want  to  know  it,  yes, — I  love  Jack;  it 
would  be  wicked  to  deny  it.  But  what  can  I  do 
when  my  heart  is  that  way,  Herbert  ?  " 

"Yes,  I  know.  He  ain't  a  clumsy  lummox  like 
me  always  puttin'  his  hoof  in  it !  He's  good-lookin' 
and  has  got  nice  ways  with  the  ladies.  Look  at  the 
way  he  played  the  hero  part  in  that  show." 

"It  isn't  that  at  all,  Herbert.  It  was  that  Jack 
and  I  seemed  like  old  friends  from  the  start,  although 
we  both  knew  we  never  had  seen  one  another  before 
in  our  lives.  I  couldn't  help  falling  in  love  with  him. 
I  didn't  mean  to  treat  you  shabbily ;  I  just  couldn't 
help  it." 

"You'll  be  marryin'  him,  I  suppose?'* 

"He  hasn't  asked  me  yet  but  —  but  — " 

"But  you  expect  he  will.     That's  it,  isn't  it?" 

She  averted  her  face  and  poked  at  a  little  pile  of 
sand  between  the  bricks  of  the  walk. 

"Perhaps  !"  she  said.  "But  it  can't  be  for  a  long 
time,  you  know.  Jack's  father  failed  in  business 
and  his  creditors  lost  a  lot  of  money.  Jack's  got 


THE   GREATER  GLORY  101 

to  pay  that  money  back;  he  thinks  he's  morally 
bound  to  do  it.  They  trusted  him  and  his  father 
and  there's  no  reason  why  they  should  lose.  Per 
haps  after  the  money's  paid  we  can  begin  to  save  for 
our  home  and  when  we  get  enough  — 

"  If  Purse  owes  as  much  as  I  hear  he  does,  you'll  be 
an  awful  long  time  gettin'  married." 

"We're  young  yet.  There's  ample  time.  Mean 
while  we're  together  — " 

"Yes,"    said    Herb    sadly,    " — you're    together. 

That's  a  lot.     I'm  sorry  it's  him,   Mary.     I   was 

hopin'  it  might  be  me.     I  was  hopin'  I  could  use  the 

money  I'm  comin'  into  to  make  a  nice  girl  like  you 

-  happy.     Wouldn't  you,  Mary  ?     Wouldn't  you  ?  '* 

Momentarily  a  vision  of  that  luxurious  front  room 
in  the  Truman  home  arose  before  the  girl !  She  gave 
thought,  too,  of  her  mother's  experience  with  a  poor 
man.  But  she  was  not  alone  now;  the  future  was 
not  uncertain.  It  made  a  difference. 

"Well,"  concluded  Herb  philosophically  as  he 
moved  away,  " —  there's  many  a  slip  between  the 
cup  and  the  lip,  Mary  Wood.  Lots  of  things  may 
happen  while  you're  waitin'  for  Purse  to  pay  up  four 
thousand  out  of  sixteen  a  week.  I  ain't  goin'  to  lose 
hope  entirely.  But  if  you  should  marry  him,  I  want 
you  to  know  that  I  —  that  I  loved  you,  Mary  Wood. 
I  ain't  seen  such  an  awful  lot  o'  you.  But  you  got 
hold  o'  me  in  a  way  no  other  woman  or  girl  ever  has. 
If  you  do  marry  him,  I  want  you  should  know  I  don't 
harbor  no  bad  feelings  and  hope  you'll  both  be 
happy." 

"Thank  you,  Herb,"  she  said.  "Next  to  Jack, 
I  think  more  of  you  than  any  other  man  in  the 
world." 

"Well,"  decided  Herbert,  —  "  that's  somethin' !" 


102  THE   GREATER  GLORY 

"Is  that  all?  "she  asked. 

He  realized  then  how  great  and  terrific  was  his 
failure.  He  was  losing  Mary  Wood,  the  girl  that  he 
loved,  to  the  Purse  boy  who  was  not  lumberous  and 
clumsy  and  did  not  have  a  cowlick  and  hands  like 
hams,  regardless  of  Sam  Hod's  declaration.  The 
misery  of  his  heart  was  appalling,  unconsolable.  He 
arose  blindly. 

"Aren't  you  coming  back  to  the  hall  and  stay  until 
the  end  of  the  dance?" 

"It  — don't  — matter,"  mumbled  Herb.  "No! 
It  don't  much  matter — with  me!"  He  moved 
away.  "Good  night,  Mary,"  he  said  without  look 
ing  at  her. 

And  he  left  her  standing  there,  wanting  to  run 
after  him  and  console  him  and  mother  him  and  tell 
him  how  his  disappointment  hurt  her,  also.  But 
he  was  gone  amid  the  shrubbery  and  she  went  slowly 
back  to  the  hall,  the  small-town  gaiety  and  the 
music. 

So  fled  her  chance  to  marry  a  wealthy  man. 

She  went  back  to  the  hall  and  to  Jack,  who  was 
wildly  looking  for  her  and  who  demanded  the  cause 
of  the  tears  in  her  eyes,  —  back  to  the  boy  whom  she 
loved. 

After  the  dance  they  walked  homeward  together. 

"Good  night,"  she  said  softly  at  the  gate,  as  she 
held  out  her  hand. 

"Good  night,  Mary!"  he  replied  thickly  in  turn. 
But  he  did  not  go. 

The  moon  made  mystic  shadows  of  the  street 
under  the  sleeping  maples,  of  the  long  white  fence 
flanked  with  the  flower  beds,  of  the  lawn  and  the 
ghostly  white  Mather  house.  The  xylophones  of  the 
crickets  sounded  from  beneath  the  fences  and  the 


THE  GREATER  GLORY  103 

hollow  board  walks.  The  songs  of  insect  lovers 
piping  out  of  tune,  came  to  them.  Down  the  street 
now  and  then  showed  a  flash  of  a  muslin  dress  — 
white  in  the  moonlight  —  and  the  little  shriek  of  a 
woman's  laughter  floated  to  them  .  .  .  carefree 
boys  and  girls  going  home  from  a  dance  !  And  under 
the  moonlight  the  girl  was  twice  as  dainty  and 
pretty  as  the  boy  had  ever  seen  her  before,  for  that 
is  the  way  of  moonlight  and  of  spring  nights  and  of 
women  in  days  when  we  love. 

Occasionally  a  couple  strolled  past  them,  —  Sam 
Hod  with  Alice  Whiting,  Grace  Rawlins  with 
the  Whitcomb  boy.  Even  Georgie  Griffin  and  the 
Whalen  girl  were  out  enjoying  the  beautiful  ex 
quisite  summer  night. 

As  Jack  came  away  finally  from  the  Mather's 
gate,  the  beauty  and  the  sadness  of  the  night  and  the 
heart  cry  of  his  new-found  age-old  love  came  to  him 
as  neither  had  ever  impressed  him  before.  And 
taking  off  his  hat  beneath  the  stars  he  murmured : 
"Oh,  if  it  could  always  go  on  always!"  But  he 
knew  it  could  not.  And  he  was  miserable  and 
afraid. 


CHAPTER  X 

IN  WHICH  THE  HEARTS  OF  OUR  FRIENDS  ARE  YOUNG 
AND  THE  WORLD  is  FAIR  AND  THE  CHIEF  CHAR 
ACTERS  OF  OUR  STORY  GIVE  INDICATIONS  OP 
THEIR  DESTINY. 

LET  us  go  back  for  a  time  and  consider  the  Hender 
sons. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  state  accurately  whether 
or  not  Paris  approved  of  the  Hendersons. 

The  Hendersons  came  into  town  along  with  the 
railroad,  —  that  is  to  say  Mrs.  Henderson  came  at 
the  same  time  as  the  railroad  and  so  Harvey  had 
come  too,  there  being  no  alternative  for  Mrs.  Hender 
son's  husband. 

Ma  Henderson  weighed  two  hundred  and  forty 
pounds,  two  hundred  of  which  was  located  in  her 
chest.  She  had  a  firm  mouth  with  knotted  muscles 
at  the  corners  thereof,  and  a  faint  moustache  show 
ing  over  all.  She  had  a  square  jaw  and  a  sour 
expression  to  her  eye.  And  her  husband,  who 
had  no  business  being  one,  went  around  with  a 
dazed  look  in  his  lamblike  eye  as  though  perpetually 
pondering  on  how  it  had  all  happened,  anyhow. 
He  was  a  head  shorter  than  Ma  Henderson  and 
about  a  hundred  pounds  lighter,  and  his  cue  was  to 
say  "I  believe  so,  Ma",  and  spend  his  time  smoking 
in  the  cellar,  spitting  in  silence  into  the  furnace 
or  sitting  in  the  cigar  stores  down-town.  One 


THE   GREATER  GLORY  105 

might  say  that  Harvey  Henderson  lived  under  a 
perpetual  matrimonial  handicap. 

They  had  not  been  in  town  long  before  Paris 
folks  knew  all  the  inner  workings  of  the  Henderson 
household  and  that  Mrs.  Harvey  Henderson  assumed 
full  charge  of  Harvey's  pension  money  as  she 
assumed  full  charge  of  everything  else  belonging 
to  Harvey.  And  because  society  has  not  yet 
reached  that  stage  where  it  may  take  literally  the 
biblical  interpretation  to  take  no  thought  what  ye 
shall  eat  and  drink  or  what  ye  shall  put  on,  Ma 
Henderson  was  renting  the  big  Squire  place  at  the 
east  end  of  Main  Street  and  opening  it  as  a  boarding 
house. 

And  Ma  Henderson  for  many  years  was  miserable 
and  lonesome,  and  the  other  wives  of  the  town 
sought  not  her  counsel  nor  her  companionship. 

It  was  with  Mibb,  the  only  daughter,  that  the 
chief  deviltry  was  to  pay.  For  as  has  been  stated, 
early  in  life  Mibb  had  witnessed  many  domestic 
altercations  and  set  up  a  marital  philosophy  of  her 
own.  In  that  philosophy,  man  as  a  male  held  a 
very  small  and  inconsequential  position.  But  man 
as  a  provider  of  money  was  different.  The  neigh 
bors  whispered  with  significant  eyebrows  that  Mibb 
Henderson  often  addressed  her  dad  publicly  and 
in  the  Henderson  home  by  his  first  name,  which  after 
a  time  she  shortened  to  "Harv."  And  her  mother 
laughed  and  thought  it  smart  and  implanted  in  that 
poor  handicapped  young  woman's  head  the  sole 
idea  that  she  must  never  commit  her  mother's 
mistake ;  Mibb  —  also  like  the  Wood  girl  —  must 
set  her  cap  for  money,  the  male  of  the  species  being 
a  nobody  and  an  easy  mark  anyhow. 

So  Mibb  had  gone  to  school  in  Paris  and  after 


106  THE   GREATER  GLORY 

school  spent  much  spare  time  down  at  the  station 
watching  the  drummers  come  in.  Finally  she  took 
a  position  in  the  Telegraph  office. 

She  was  not  a  bad  girl ;  had  she  departed  at  any 
time  from  the  straight  and  narrow  pathway  followed 
by  our  New  England  daughters,  the  town  —  even 
the  girl  friends  to  whom  she  condescendingly  told 
deep  things  which  no  girls  should  know  —  wouldn't 
have  tolerated  Mibb  for  a  moment.  She  was  merely 
handicapped  by  a  brainless,  unnatural  mother  and 
a  weak-willed  father,  and  why  she  never  stumbled 
over  the  edge  of  the  social  precipice  will  always 
remain  one  of  the  mysteries  of  small-town  morality. 

Mibb  in  our  printing  office  was  a  bright  girl  and 
a  good  compositor  —  when  she  would  work  —  which 
was  chiefly  when  she  especially  wanted  a  new  dress 
or  a  hat  or  something  to  wear  to  a  party.  But  Ma 
Henderson  came  periodically  to  the  conclusion  that 
work  before  a  type  case  was  not  dignified  enough 
for  an  embryo  "lady"  and  hinted  often  at  Mabel's 
social  standing  and  her  chances  to  marry  money; 
and  Mibb  as  periodically  laid  down  her  stick  and  left 
us  and  stayed  away  from  us  and  then  came  back 
again.  Poor  Mibb  !  Perhaps  after  all,  like  our  old 
duplex  press,  she  was  more  sinned  against  than 
sinning. 

We  had  singing  schools  in  those  days.  A  crowd 
of  six  —  Mibb  Henderson  and  Dick  Robinson,  Sam 
Hod  and  Alice,  Jack  Purse  and  Mary  were  return 
ing  home  from  the  last  one  for  that  spring  season 
held  in  Green  Valley,  when  they  sat  down  on  the 
wall  about  Seaver's  pasture  on  another  moonlit 
evening. 

"Folks,"  announced  Mibb,  "I've  had  a  proposal 
—  a  real  proposal  —  a  proposal  of  marriage  !" 


THE   GREATER  GLORY  107 

Mary  glanced  quickly  at  Mibb  with  disapproval 
strong  on  her  fine  features.  Such  things  were  not 
to  be  discussed  lightly  in  public.  But  Mibb  dug 
her  foot  deeply  in  the  grass  and  the  brierbloom  and 
went  on  mischievously:  "Now  aren't  some  folks 
the  jokers ! " 

Dick  Robinson's  lips  closed  grimly.  We  had 
known  for  a  long  time  that  Dick  loved  Mibb  Hender 
son.  But  Dick  was  only  a  bookkeeper  in  the  process 
works,  and  good  looking  though  he  was,  his  good 
looks  would  never  make  up  for  the  tragedy  of  a  pay 
envelope  containing  a  mere  ten  dollars  a  week,  — 
not  to  Mabel  reared  by  her  mother. 

"I'd  just  as  soon  you'd  keep  such  things  in  the 
same  confidence  in  which  they  were  spoken,  Mibb," 
he  said  with  hard  insinuation. 

"Now  isn't  he  sensitive  !"  Mibb  returned. 

Mary  and  Jack  were  sitting  side  by  side  on  the 
wall  between  Mibb  and  the  girl's  lover.  Mary 
turned  and  looked  at  Dick,  a  picture  of  confusion, 
anger,  misery  and  chagrin. 

"Mjbb,"  declared  the  sympathetic  Mary,  "such 
things  are  sacred  ! " 

"Sacred!"  Again  the  merry  peal  of  laughter 
from  Mibb.  Finding  that  no  one  joined  her  and 
that  only  embarrassment  resulted,  she  sobered. 

"I  thought  we  were  all  good  friends  together  or 
I  shouldn't  have  mentioned  it,"  she  said. 

"We  are  good  friends  together,  Mibb,"  declared 
Alice.  "That's  why  Mary  spoke  so  frankly." 
And  the  boys  looked  sheepishly  at  one  another. 

"I  don't  want  to  be  married!"  declared  Mibb. 
"Not  for  a  long,  long  time.  I  want  to  get  the  full 
fun  out  of  life.  When  a  girl  gets  married  it  means 
care  and  worry  and  work  and  squalling  kids. 


108  THE   GREATER  GLORY 

And  besides,"  she  added  brutally,  "I  wouldn't 
marry  anybody  that  was  poor  anyhow !" 

Dick  Robinson  arose. 

"I'll  move  along,"  he  said.  He  started  down 
the  road  alone,  off  into  the  night  and  back  to  town. 
And  on  another  evening  in  a  far  distant  year  Mibb 
recalled  his  going,  with  a  far  different  emotion  in 
her  heart.  "Dick!"  she  cried.  "Come  back!" 

But  Dick  paid  her  no  attention.  He  disappeared 
around  the  bend  in  the  road. 

"Mabel  —  you're  heartless  !"     Mary  rebuked  her. 

But  Mibb  passed  it  off  with  a  laugh. 

"Dick  should  have  known  he  was  impossible," 
she  said.  "I  don't  see  why  he  keeps  thrusting  him 
self  upon  me!" 

"Dick's  a  good  boy!"  defended  Alice  " — as 
good  as  there  is  in  Paris.  He  only  makes  ten 
dollars  a  week.  But  that  isn't  anything  against 
him." 

"  Then  let  him  come  around  when  he  makes  more," 
replied  Mibb.  She  was  angry  that  the  company  had 
turned  against  her. 

"You're  putting  it  that  nothing  matters  but 
dollars  and  cents,"  declared  Alice.  "That's  heart 
less  and  silly,  Mibb,  and  it  leads  only  to  unhap- 
piness." 

"Money  won't  buy  happiness,  Mibb,"  added 
Mary. 

"Fiddlesticks,"  declared  the  Henderson  girl. 

Jack  Purse's  heart  fluttered  suddenly  and  wildly. 
For  the  hand  that  was  laid  on  his  arm  to  keep  the 
Wood  girl  steady  on  the  wall  imparted  some  little 
pressure  to  that  arm  not  at  all  necessary  in  the  busi 
ness  of  maintaining  her  equilibrium. 

"I  don't  want  to  get  married,"  repeated  Mabel. 


THE   GREATER  GLORY  109 

"I've  always  been  sorry  I  was  born  a  girl  anyway. 
Girls  and  women  get  the  hard  end  of  marriage  the 
same  as  everything  else  in  life.  It  means  work, 
work,  work,  marriage  does,  —  work  from  morning 
till  night  and  precious  little  thanks  in  return  for 
the  effort.  It  means  waiting  helplessly  inside  a 
home  while  a  man  makes  good  or  doesn't  make 
good,  according  to  his  ability.  It  means  pain  and 
suffering  and  sometimes  death  —  and  what  do  you 
get  in  return?  Yes,  what  do  you  get  in  return? 
Answer  me  that !  Men  can  get  out  in  the  world  and 
do  things.  They're  free  to  go  and  come  as  they 
like.  They  earn  money  that  gives  them  the  right 
to  say  how  it  shall  be  spent.  It's  a  man's  world 
and  made  for  men,  and  all  that's  left  for  a  woman  is 
to  play  the  second  part ;  and  if  a  girl's  high-spirited 
and  wants  to  rise  above  her  lot,  she's  heartless  and 
unnatural  and  shameless.  She's  a  slave,  that's 
what  she  is,  —  a  slave.  Deny  it  if  you  can.  Cover 
it  with  fine  phrases.  Smooth  it  over  with  love  and 
romance.  But  deep  down  underneath  is  the  ugly 
truth  just  the  same,  the  ugly  truth  of  the  slavery. 
And  I  won't  be  a  slave !  Even  if  you  do  call  me 
heartless  and  unnatural  I  tell  you  I  won't  be  a  slave. 
I'm  free  now  to  live  my  life  as  I  please  and  I'll 
keep  so.  If  I  do  marry,  it'll  be  because  there's  the 
money  available  to  make  me  escape  the  slavery. 
It'll  be  because  it'll  help  me  to  enjoy  life  and  get 
out  of  it  all  there  is  in  it.  If  that's  shameful  and 
bold  and  unwomanly,  make  the  most  of  it.  But 
it's  my  way  of  looking  at  things.  So  far  in  life  I've 
seen  no  reason  to  change." 

There  was  silence  for  a  time.  The  words  had  a 
strange  familiar  ring  in  Mary's  ears. 

"Being  married  doesn't  seem  that  to  me  at  all, 


110  THE   GREATER  GLORY 

Mibb,"  she  replied  softly.  "I  suppose  it's  all  a  dif 
ference  in  temperament.  If  you  want  to  call  it 
slavery,  then  —  then  —  well,  speaking  for  myself " 
—  and  her  voice  was  very  low  and  soft  and  almost  a 
whisper  —  "I'm  cheerfully  willing  to  be  that  kind 
of  slave,  Mibb." 

"You're  a  little  fool !"  retorted  Mabel. 

"You  say  it  means  work  throughout  life.  But 
what  of  that,  Mibb  ?  All  of  us  must  work  at  some 
thing  or  other,  mustn't  we?  Isn't  work  a  law  of 
life?  Why  not  in  a  home  that's  your  own  among 
people  that  you  love,  as  anywhere?  You  say  it 
means  waiting  for  the  man  you  marry  to  succeed. 
But  that  isn't  a  hardship,  Mibb?  It's  a  privilege. 
If  you  pick  out  the  right  man,  and  he's  honest,  and 
ambitious  and  capable,  why  isn't  it  the  most  interest 
ing  game  in  the  world  to  play,  Mibb  ?  —  to  watch 
him  step  by  step  as  he  climbs  upward;  and  help 
him  to  do  it ;  and  climb  upward  with  him ;  and  some 
day  stand  on  the  summit  with  him  and  have  the 
same  feeling  'together  we  did  it ' !  You  say  it 
means  pain  and  suffering  and  sometimes  death  — 
but  what  of  that,  Mibb?  Only  the  cowardly 
shrink  from  pain  and  suffering  and  death.  I  am 
not  afraid  of  work  and  pain  and  suffering  —  be 
cause  it's  far  from  being  all  shadows;  there's  com 
pensation,  Mibb.  Beautiful  compensation — !" 

Mary's  voice  was  unsteady.  Sam  and  Jack 
looked  at  her.  In  the  moonlight  they  fancied  her 
eyes  were  wet  with  tears. 

"Mary,"  returned  Mabel,  "you're  sickishly  senti 
mental.  It's  women  like  you  that  are  holding  other 
women  down  in  society.  The  time's  coming,  Mary, 
like  Grace  Rawlins  says,  when  women  with  those 
old-fashioned  ideas  are  going  to  give  way.  This  is 


THE   GREATER  GLORY  111 

going  to  stop  being  a  man's  world.  It's  going  to  be 
a  woman's  world  as  well,  Mary.  Women  are  go 
ing  to  be  equal  with  men  — " 

"Aren't  they  equal  now,  Mibb?" 

"Aren't  they  now?  No,  they  aren't!  I've  told 
you  this  is  a  man's  world,  and  I've  told  you  why." 

"It  seems  to  me  they're  equal  to  men  if  they  care 
to  do  the  right  thing.  It  seems  to  me  it's  wholly  a 
matter  for  the  individual  girl  to  settle,  Mibb.  She 
can  pick  up  the  right  sort  of  husband  and  be  a 
partner  to  him  and  enjoy  all  he  enjoys  and  be  his 
wife  and  sharer  in  his  success,  now  as  much  as  she 
ever  can  —  there's  nothing  to  stop  her,  Mibb." 

But  Mibb  did  not  answer  because  put  that  way 
there  was  no  answer.  And  because  the  truism 
always  holds  :  When  you  cannot  answer  your  op 
ponent's  argument  do  not  despair,  you  can  still 
call  him  names,  she  began  making  fun  of  Mary 
Wood. 

Mary  was  pulling  a  bit  bewilderedly  at  her  hand 
kerchief,  her  eyes  downcast. 

"I'm  perfectly  willing  to  be  considered  —  old- 
fashioned,"  she  said  brokenly.  "If  you  want  to 
call  it  that.  I'm  perfectly  willing  —  to  take  any 
chances  on  being  happy  —  in  my  own  way  —  that 
way  that  I've  said.  I  haven't  any  desire  to  be  a 
man  —  not  in  the  slightest.  I  can't  see  why  a 
woman's  place  in  the  world  —  doing  a  woman's 
work  —  keeping  a  home  —  raising  little  children 
to  be  good  men  and  women  in  turn  —  isn't  just  as 
important  and  noble  as  anything  a  man  could  do  — 
outside  that  home.  No,  I  can't  see  why  a  woman 
shouldn't  be  satisfied  —  and  look  upon  her  work  as 
a  privilege.  I'm  willing  to  take  my  chances  in 
life  with  my  belief.  It  can  lead  me  where  it  will ! " 


112  THE   GREATER  GLORY 

When  at  last  they  came  to  continue  on  their  way 
back  to  town,  the  five  of  them  were  very  thoughtful. 
Mibb  walked  behind  —  alone. 

"Don't  feel  badly  over  it,"  Jack  said  soothingly 
to  the  girl  on  his  arm.  "  It  isn't  worth  crying  over  — 
what  she  says,  Mary.  She'll  see  she's  mistaken 
some  day,  Mary.  You're  —  you're  noble,  Mary!" 
—  he  paid  the  compliment  with  difficulty  —  "and  I 
hope  —  the  man  —  who  marries  you  stays  big 
enough  to  know  it." 

That  night  the  boy  lay  on  his  bed  sleeplessly 
through  many  hours,  thinking  over  what  had 
occurred  and  the  things  which  had  been  discussed 
between  them  that  evening.  Boys  and  girls  do  not 
discuss  things  in  that  way  in  these  barren  days  on 
which  we  have  fallen.  "She's  one  girl  in  a  thou 
sand,"  he  muttered  miserably.  "If  I  lose  her  —  if 
I  don't  marry  her  —  I'll  never,  never  know  another 
like  her  again." 

Gray  dawn  stole  up  over  the  eastern  mountains 
and  found  him  still  awake,  tossing  fretfully  on  his 
bed. 


CHAPTER  XI 

AND  so,  HAVING  PLACED  THE  HEROES  AND  HEROINES 
AND  THE  VlLLAINESSES  OF  OUR  STORY  WHO  ARE 
TO  WORK  OUT  THEIR  DESTINY  AS  TIME  GOES 
ON,  WE  COME  TO  THE  MEMORABLE  PICNIC  UP  IN 
BLAISDELL'S  GLEN  AND  EVENING  IN  GOLD-PIECE 
CABIN. 

AT  the  office  the  talk  was  of  the  picnic  up  the 
Glen  that  afternoon,  —  a  celebration  for  the  success 
of  the  local  talent  play. 

The  ex-players  met  on  the  Opera  House  steps. 
The  girls  had  generous  baskets  of  which  the  boys 
relieved  them  as  they  arrived  with  awkward  greet 
ings  meant  to  be  funny  and  at  which  the  girls  laughed 
as  they  were  supposed  to  laugh.  Quickly  they 
paired  off:  Jack  and  Mary;  Mibb  and  Slug  Truman ; 
Sam  Hod  and  Alice;  Harriet  Babcock  and  Frank 
Whitcomb ;  even  Georgie  Griffin  and  the  Whalen 
girl  were  there  —  the  latter  brought  her  pathetic 
addition  to  the  refreshments  done  in  a  paper  parcel. 
Then  as  they  were  about  to  start,  Dick  Robinson 
and  Grace  Rawlins  arrived  from  different  directions. 

"I'm  the  odd  one!"  greeted  Mrs.  Whipple. 
"  You'll  just  make  partners  ! " 

The  crowd  laughed  and  Dick  colored,  glowering 
darkly  at  Truman  in  possession  of  Mibb's  basket. 
The  thirteen  moved  up  Main  Street  and  eastward 
out  of  the  village  toward  the  East  Wickford  road, 


114  THE   GREATER  GLORY 

Mrs.  Whipple  walking  with  Grace  and  Dick,  and 
Dick  carrying  two  baskets. 

"Why  is  it  called  Gold-Piece  Glen  and  Gold- 
Piece  Cabin  ?  "  Jack  asked  Truman  as  they  walked 
on  ahead. 

"Years  ago  when  they  mined  for  iron  around  these 
parts  there  was  an  old  chap  lived  up  in  the  Glen," 
replied  Herbert,  "who  turned  all  his  wages  into 
gold  pieces.  He  hid  them  somewhere  in  his  cabin. 
They  called  him  Gold-Piece  Blaisdell.  He  died  a 
dozen  years  ago,  —  from  injuries  when  two  tramps 
broke  into  the  place.  They  found  his  hoard  in  an 
earthen  vessel  buried  under  the  fireplace.  The 
governor  bought  the  Glen  to  lumber  the  chestnut 
a  year  afterward  and  I  fixed  up  the  old  Cabin.  I 
stay  up  there  in  the  deer  season  or  whenever  I  have 
a  hankering  to  take  to  the  woods." 

"And  is  the  old  earthen  pot  still  buried?" 

"Yep,"  answered  Slug  Truman. 

"Do  you  know  where?" 

"  Yep ;  I'll  show  you  when  we  get  up  there.  We'll 
build  a  fire  in  the  fireplace  —  Frank's  got  his  violin 
—  we'll  have  a  great  time  —  and  the  moon's  going 
to  be  full  to-night  —  full  for  the  last  time  this 
month.  It'll  be  a  great  walk  home!"  He  glanced 
sadly  at  Mary  Wood.  He  was  trying  hard  to  bear 
his  disappointment  like  a  dead  game  sport. 

They  wended  their  laughing,  joking,  coquetting 
way  out  School  Street  and  past  the  gas  works. 
They  passed  the  County  Farm  and  turned  toward 
East  Wickford.  As  the  whistles  back  in  the  village 
were  blowing  six,  they  came  to  the  "turning-off 
place",  as  Slug  termed  it,  and  passed  over  the 
Truman  land  and  climbed  up  into  the  Glen. 

A  thousand  country  scents,  of  sweet  fern  and  briar 


THE   GREATER  GLORY  115 

bloom  and  blossoming  laurel,  of  blackberry  vine 
and  checkerberry  and  wild  apple  —  made  the 
beautiful  evening  air  sensuous  with  rustic  fragrance. 
Through  the  raspberry  that  scratched  at  their 
clothes  and  the  milkweed  that  left  lint  upon  them, 
through  grasses  that  were  already  beginning  to 
grow  damp  and  little  swarms  of  insects  which  winged 
and  fell  on  the  quiet  atmosphere,  they  moved 
along  the  weU-worn  path  and  up  under  the  tall 
silent  trees  to  where  the  cabin  stood  in  the  shadows. 
Th&  picnic  was  not  unlike  a  thousand  other  picnics 
between  boys  and  girls  in  love  that  have  taken  place 
since  the  world  began.  Grace  Rawlins  wanted  to 
know  how  Slug  ever  had  the  nerve  to  invite  them  up 
to  such  a  dirty  hole  and  it  just  went  to  show  what 
brutes  men  were  at  heart  when  they  got  away  from 
women ;  and  a  few  minutes  later  she  wanted  to 
know  why  they'd  brought  so  much  food ;  what 
did  they  think  they  had  to  feed,  an  army?  But 
Slug  built  a  fire  in  the  low  fireplace  and  they  boiled 
their  coffee  and  the  food  was  laid  out  over  the  big 
plank  table,  The  boys  held  back  and  had  to  be 
handed  their  sandwiches  and  coffee  and  then, 
having  been  thus  given  a  start,  they  forgot  when  it 
was  time  to  stop  and  massacred  the  refreshments. 
Slug  —  as  clumsy  as  a  plow  horse  —  upset  a  cup 
of  coffee  on  Alice  Whiting's  dress  and  in  helping  her 
remove  the  mess  got  in  a  back-fire  motion  and  sent 
a  jar  of  pickle  the  other  way  over  Mibb.  Grace 
Rawlins  said  some  one  ought  to  have  brought  along 
a  martingale  for  him  or  umbrellas  for  the  crowd. 
The  Whalen  girl  did  the  most  work  getting  things 
ready  and  then  began  to  weep  inwardly  because 
she  hadn't  brought  near  enough  food  for  herself 
and  Georgie  Griffin,  too,  because,  poor  girl,  she 


116  THE   GREATER  GLORY 

didn't  have  it  to  bring.     But  Georgie  had  no  scruples 
about  whose  food  it  was  and  "pitched  in." 

It  was  a  joyous  happy  meal  in  the  woods  where 
nature  gives  zest  to  youthful  appetite  and  much 
harmless  courting  was  to  come,  —  which  was  even 
better  than  the  food. 

Then  as  the  Glen  darkened  outside  and  an  oc 
casional  mosquito  winged  in  the  open  doorway  and 
dined  off  a  plump  wrist  or  ankle,  and  the  stars  came 
out,  and  the  Glen  was  made  weird  by  mysterious 
night  noises,  the  table  with  the  wreckage  of  edibles 
was  moved  back  and  the  boys  lighted  their  pipes 
and  found  places  for  themselves  and  their  girls 
around  the  fire  that  Slug  had  coaxed  and  poked 
until  it  was  a  thing  of  joy  and  romance  and  comfort. 

Mibb  sat  on  the  floor  with  her  head  against 
Slug's  knees  —  and  in  a  corner  beside  the  Rawlins 
girl,  whom  he  detested  for  her  uncomfortable  tongue, 
Dick  looked  as  miserable  and  kept  as  quiet  and  in 
conspicuous  as  a  puppy  that  is  ailing  grievously. 

Harriet  was  seated  beside  the  Truman  boy, 
Frank  Whitcomb  was  sprawled  out  in  front  of  her, 
his  big  feet  silhouetted  against  the  flames,  his  head 
in  the  girl's  lap.  Sam  and  Alice  were  over  on  the 
left  —  and  behind  the  crowd,  seemingly  not  of  it, 
were  Jack  Purse  and  Mary  Wood.  Jack  had  stolen 
his  arm  about  Mary's  waist  and  Mary  did  not  resent 
the  intimacy. 

Why  repeat  the  talk  —  the  jests,  the  repartee, 
the  foolery  and  the  clumsy  sallies  at  one  another  — 
that  followed  on  that  evening?  Every  man  and 
every  woman  on  God's  footstool  who  has  ever  been 
young  and  loved  has  been  present  at  such  an  outing 
and  knows  the  talk  thereof. 

Finally    Frank    Whitcomb    produced    his    violin 


THE   GREATER  GLORY  117 

from  its  battered  old  black  case  and  tuned  it  and 
laid  aside  his  pipe  and  began  to  play  —  "Oft  In  the 
Stilly  Night",  "The  Light  of  Other  Days",  and 
"Auld  Robin  Gray",  and  many  more  of  the  old- 
time  favorites.  They  were  silent  a  long  time  after 
Fred  had  finished  playing.  The  boys'  pipes  had 
gone  out.  It  seemed  as  though  all  of  them,  under 
the  spell  of  the  hour  and  the  place  and  the  music, 
had  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  future  and  had  been 
made  solemn  and  thoughtful  and  a  bit  afraid. 

"Wonder,"  said  Slug  suddenly  in  a  tone  that  was 
strange  for  that  easygoing,  loose-habited  young 
fellow,  "where  this  crowd  will  be  all  of  us  —  twenty 
or  thirty  years  from  to-night?" 

Indeed  Truman  had  voiced  the  feeling  in  the 
hearts  of  them  all.  And  they  could  not  reply. 
Just  at  the  moment  their  hearts  were  too  full  to  reply. 

"I  suppose,"  answered  Sam  lightly,  "some  of  us 

will  be  married  and  have  families  —  some  of  us  will 

have  made  successes  of  our  lives  and  made  money 

or   won   fame  —  and    some   of   us  —  maybe  —  will 

-  be  —  dead  !   perhaps  many  years  dead  !" 

There  was  a  strange  quiet  in  the  cabin.  Even 
Mibb  was  sobered  and  looked  into  the  flames  with 
staring  eyes.  It  came  to  them  that  moment,  as  a 
reaction  from  the  foolery  of  that  hour  that  had  gone, 
how  aptly  Sam  had  spoken.  Yes,  the  spell  of  the 
hour,  the  place  and  the  music  was  indeed  upon  them. 
But  there  was  more.  There  was  the  mystery  of 
life  and  living  and  the  thoughtless  heart  of  youth 
made  suddenly  thoughtful. 

Herb  Truman  spoke  again.  His  tone  was  strange 
to  those  who  knew  him  well.  He  seemed  musing 
aloud  on  what  Sam  had  said  : 

"Yes,  some'll  have  families  and  some'll  be  rich 


118  THE   GREATER  GLORY 

and  some'll  be  famous.  But  I  wonder  which  of  us 
will  be  the  most  successful  —  just  plain  downright 
successful  —  never  mind  what  our  work  in  life 
happens  to  be?" 

"  Successful  ?  "  asked  Mibb.  "  What  do  you  mean 
by  successful?" 

"Just  successful,"  replied  Slug  doggedly.  "I  call 
success  wherein  we've  done  the  things  we  set  our 
selves  to  do,  to  the  best  that's  in  us." 

"You  talk  like  a  preacher,"  declared  Mibb.  "I 
didn't  know  it  was  in  you  !" 

Indeed,  neither  did  the  rest  of  them.  And  in 
that  time  —  perhaps  the  first  and  last  and  only  time 
-  the  Truman  boy  showed  what  really  lay  within 
him,  the  manner  of  man  he  might  have  been  if  he 
had  not  been  handicapped,  cruelly  handicapped,  first 
by  lack  of  a  mother,  second  by  the  woman  whom  he 
married.  There  are  folk  in  our  town  who  have  only 
harsh  words  for  Herbert  Truman  for  the  things  which 
subsequently  happened.  Verily  they  judged  cruelly 
from  circumstantial  evidence.  They  never  took 
the  trouble  nor  were  given  the  opportunity  to  gaze 
down  into  the  boy's  soul  and  learn  of  the  stuff  of 
which  it  was  made. 

They  discussed  success  with  the  thoughtfulness 
of  youth ;  for  half  an  hour  they  talked  of  solemn 
things,  for  they  were  on  the  threshold,  some  of  them 
of  solemn  things,  for  there  is  some  truth  to  the  prov 
erb  that  coming  events  cast  their  shadows  before. 
Then,  —  for  what  reason  not  one  in  that  party  ever 
found  out,  though  they  debated  over  it  through  all 
maturity  —  Slug  felt  in  the  pocket  of  his  waistcoat 
and  pulled  out  a  coin. 

"A  twenty -dollar  gold  piece,"  said  he.  "Just 
had  an  idea.  Going  to  propose  something  funny." 


THE   GREATER  GLORY  119 

"Funny?  Don't  break  the  charm  of  the  hour 
and  the  atmosphere,"  said  Mary  Wood. 

"It's  funny  and  it  isn't,"  answered  Slug.  "Here's 
a  twenty-dollar  gold-piece  I  say.;  Carried  it  as  a 
pocket  piece  for  a  couple  of  years.  I'll  donate 
it  for  the  purpose.  Let's  do  something  unusual 
with  it  —  to  remember  this  picnic  by.  Let's 
bury  it!" 

"Bury  it!" 

"In  old  Gold-Piece  Blaisdell's  pot  here  under  the 
fireplace.  Let's  put  it  away  —  for  twenty  or  thirty 
years.  Then  twenty  or  thirty  years  —  whatever 
number  of  years  we  agree  on  —  from  to-night,  let 
us  that  are  living  and  physically  able  to  do  so, 
come  back  here  to  Gold-Piece  Cabin  if  it's  standing, 
and  dig  up  this  coin  !" 

"Why  dig  it  up  —  then ? "   asked  Jack  Purse. 

"Dig  it  up  —  and  present  it  to  the  one  of  us  who 
has  made  the  biggest  success  of  his  life." 

"Why?" 

"  Sort  of  a  medal  of  honor  from  the  rest  of  us  — - 
the  crowd  we  used  to  go  around  with  —  a  tribute, 
a  sort  of  an  admission  —  that  while  some  of  us  have 
become  successful,  there's  some  one  person  here  who 
will  be  more  successful  than  all  the  others.  This 
medal  they  can  keep  for  the  rest  of  their  lives  —  a 
medal,  as  I  say  —  of  honor  !" 

"A  crazy  idea  !"  scoffed  Grace  Rawlins. 

"It's  not  a  crazy  idea!"  contradicted  Frank 
Whitcomb.  "It's  bully!" 

Several  times  as  Herb  was  digging  up  the  brick 
from  the  hearth,  to  get  to  the  miser's  earthen  pot 
below,  Mibb  looked  at  him  queerly.  Verily  it  was 
a  different  Herb  disclosed  for  the  moment  than  she 
had  ever  known  before. 


120  THE   GREATER  GLORY 

"In  thirty  years  there  won't  be  any  gold-piece 
that's  recognizable,"  suggested  Grace  Rawlins. 

"Gold  stands  the  test  of  time,"  replied  Sam. 
"But  it  might  be  better  if  we  had  something  to 
protect  it.  Who's  got  a  pocket  match-safe  they  don't 
mind  donating  to  posterity  ?  " 

It  developed  that  the  only  match-safe  in  the  crowd 
belonged  to  Dick  Robinson. 

Slug  found  the  brick,  dug  it  loose,  lifted  it  and 
discovered  the  musty  cavity. 

"Here  goes!"  he  declared.  "Which  shall  it 
be  —  twenty  or  thirty  years  ?  "  he  asked  as  he  dropped 
the  medal  into  the  thin  German  silver  match-box 
with  a  sharp  brief  jingle. 

"This  old  shack  won't  be  standing  in  thirty 
years!"  croaked  Grace.  "It's  a  waste  of  good 
money ! " 

"Which  shall  it  be  —  twenty  or  thirty  years?" 
repeated  Slug  again. 

"Make  it  thirty,"  suggested  Sam. 

"Thirty  it  is!"  declared  Truman,  enjoying  the 
unique  prank  and  his  part  in  it. 

With  all  leaning  forward  and  looking  on,  into  the 
earthen  cavity  Slug  laid  it  almost  reverently.  Then 
he  carefully  set  the  brick. 

"Thirty  years  from  to-night  —  the  seventeenth 
of  May,  eighteen  hundred  and  eighty  six,"  he  said. 
"I  —  wonder  —  which  of  us  it  will  go  to  then. 
Thirty  years  from  to-night !  —  that  will  be  the 
seventeenth  of  May,  nineteen  hundred  and  sixteen." 


CHAPTER  XII 

A  SOMEWHAT  GRUESOME  CHAPTER  AT  THE  END  OF 
WHICH  OUR  SOLICITUDE  FOR  THE  WOOD  GIRL 
MOUNTS  TO  GRAVE  CONCERN. 

THEY  did  not  go  home  together  on  that  night. 
Eight-thirty  found  Jack  and  Mary  alone  on  the 
hilltop  that  overlooks  Paris  on  the  east.  Amid 
the  country  quiet,  in  the  depth  of  evening,  the  boy 
took  the  girl  in  his  arms  and  together  they  watched 
the  stars  come  out,  and  heard  the  frogs  begin  their 
piping  along  the  banks  of  the  river. 

"Oh,  Jack,  it's  such  a  long  time  to  wait  —  until 
you  pay  the  debts  —  four  thousand  dollars'  worth 
of  them.  I  try  to  keep  up  a  brave  front,  Jack. 
But  when  I  get  out  a  paper  and  pencil  and  figure  for 
myself,  it  makes  me  —  it  makes  me  —  a  coward." 

"There'll  be  a  way  out  somehow,"  he  said  hope 
fully.  "I  don't  expect  to  pay  up  four  thousand 
dollars  out  of  my  wages  on  the  paper.  I'm  only 
trying  to  show  the  creditors  I'm  on  the  level  by 
paying  them  what  I  can  while  I'm  waiting  for  my 
opportunity.  The  opportunity  will  come  sooner  or 
later  and  that  doesn't  mean  I'm  content,  Micawber 
fashion,  to  idly  wait  for  something  to  turn  up.  I'm 
doing  a  pile  of  thinking  these  days,  Mary." 

"Oh,  Jack,  if  there  was  only  some  way  that  I 
could  help!" 

"You  are  helping,  right  now!  You  don't  half 
know  how  much !" 


122  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

The  stars  grew  brighter.  The  piping  of  the  frogs 
grew  louder.  Night  indeed  was  upon  them. 

"I  wonder,"  he  said  after  the  manner  of  the 
poet  which  he  was,  as  they  saw  the  lights  begin  to 
appear  in  the  homes  dotting  the  valley  floor  below 
them  and  thought  of  what  Herbert  had  done  that 
night,  "I  wonder  what  life  holds  for  you  and  me, 
Mary?  If  we  could  look  into  the  future  I  wonder 
what  we  would  see  there ;  I  wonder  how  different 
we  might  be  planning  to-night  ?  " 

He  pressed  the  girl's  hand,  the  hand  with  the 
slender  fingers  which  looked  so  frail  and  were  destined 
to  do  so  much  in  the  years  that  came  afterward. 
When  we  of  the  Telegraph  office  think  of  Jack  that 
night  out  on  Bancroft's  hill,  pressing  the  girl's 
delicate  hand  and  thinking  of  what  the  years  might 
bring,  we  seem  to  feel  a  sadness  which  all  the  glories 
of  those  intervening  years  and  all  the  pleasures  and 
successes  cannot  assuage. 

They  came  back  to  town  late  that  night,  his  arm 
about  her  shoulders,  hers  about  his  waist. 
They  walked  slowly,  each  occupied  with  his  own 
thoughts,  bareheaded,  the  sweet  wild  scents  of 
night  country  enveloping  them. 

"It's  such  a  long  time  to  wait,  Jack,  such  a  long 
time  to  wait.  And  I  want  you  so  !" 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "I'll  do  my  best.  God  being 
my  witness,  I  will !" 

Where  the  inlet  runs  up  into  Morse's  pasture  the 
frogs  were  chorusing  particularly  loud. 

"Oh  Jack,  I  can't  help  thinking  of  how  I  heard 
them  the  night  I  left  home.  A  year  ago !  Oh, 
how  short  the  time  has  been."  A  little  later  she 
said:  "Poor  mother!  We  must  drive  out  to  the 
place  Sunday  and  see  if  she  is  all  right  and  wants 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  123 

for  anything.  She  must  have  it  brought  to  her  how 
happy  —  and  miserable  —  I  am  !" 

"Yes,"  said  Jack  absently,  his  thoughts  on  another 
problem,  "we  will  drive  out  there  Sunday."  A 
quarter-mile  further  on  he  said  between  his  teeth : 
"I've  either  got  to  get  hold  of  a  paper  of  my  own 
or  I've  got  to  look  around  for  some  other  business  ! 
I've  just  got  to  make  some  money!"  He 'said  it 
as  though  he  had  discovered  something  new  under 
the  sun. 

"Jack  !  You  wouldn't  leave  the  Telegraph  office  ! 
I  somehow  couldn't  work  there  if  you  left." 

"You  can  help  me  by  being  patient,  dear,"  he  said. 

"Don't  know  which  is  harder,  Jack,  to  be  the  one 
who  has  the  responsibility  of  making  good  or  the 
one  who  must  remain  quiet  and  patient  while  the 
other  strives  to  realize  his  ambition  !" 

He  bade  her  good-night  at  her  gate  and  left  for 
Ma  Henderson's  boarding  place  with  her  kiss  burn 
ing  upon  his  lips. 

At  nine  o'clock  that  following  morning  Sam  Hod 
came  into  the  back  room.  There  was  tragedy  in 
his  expressive  eyes ;  his  face  was  pale. 

"Jack,"  he  directed,  "come  into  the  front  office." 

Purse  followed  Sam. 

The  editor  closed  the  doors  and  turned  to  the 
young  man. 

"Son,  you  love  Mary  Wood,  don't  you?" 

"Yes."     The  boy  flushed  but  he  was  not  ashamed. 

"I  knew  it.  I  want  to  see  the  girl  happy.  Jack, 
forget  this  absurdity  about  paying  up  all  your  father's 
bills.  The  court  has  absolved  you  from  any  such 
nonsense.  Go  get  that  girl,  make  her  put  on  her 
things  and  take  a  holiday  with  you.  Get  one  of 
Uncle  Joe  Fodder's  rigs,  drive  off  to  some  of  the  little 


124  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

towns  roundabout  and  get  married.  Do  it  quickly, 
right  now,  without  losing  another  moment !" 

"Mr.  Hod,  what's  the  matter?  What's  hap 
pened  ?  " 

"I  advise  you  to  do  it  for  the  sake  of  the  girl 
herself.  I  pity  her;  I  want  to  know  she's  got  a 
good  boy  like  you  to  look  out  for  her  and  comfort 
her." 

"Comfort  her?     Why?" 

"Boy,  Henry  Osgood  has  just  driven  in  here  from 
the  Cobb  Hill  district.  He  says  he  has  only  seen 
Sheriff  Crumpett,  Doctor  Johnson  the  coroner  and 
myself.  The  town  don't  know  it  yet.  You  can  get 
Mary  out  and  away  and  give  her  something  to 
mitigate  the  blow  —  " 

"Mr.  Hod!"  The  boy's  voice  was  a  hoarse 
whisper.  "Tell  me  what  has  happened.  If  it's 
about  her  folks,  I  can  comfort  and  help  her  just  as 
though  we  were  already  married  - 

"Silent  Wheeler's  gone  and  done  it  at  last !" 

"Done  what?" 

"  Will  you  go  get  the  girl  and  move  her  out  of  this 
for  the  day?  Marry  her?  I'll  raise  your  wages  to 
eighteen  a  week." 

"Mr.  Hod,  I  can't,  I  can't !  Don't  you  see  how  it 
is?  I  had  something  to  do  with  some  of  the  men 
putting  money  into  our  newspaper.  I've  got  to 
square  with  them  or  be  a  cad  in  my  own  heart.  I 
can't  marry  Mary  right  now  although  my  heart's 
about  broke  over  it.  Tell  me  straight;  what  has 
Silent  Wheeler  done?" 

Sam  told  him. 

The  boy  went  out  into  the  back  room. 

"Mary,"  he  said,  ill  himself  from  the  thing  which 
he  must  do,  "come  out  with  me  for  an  hour." 


THE   GREATER  GLORY  125 

She  raised  her  face  to  his  with  such  a  look  of 
wonder  and  innocence  that  his  heart  smote  him  so 
he  almost  cried  aloud. 

"Why?" 

"I  want  to  talk  to  you  !  Please  come,"  he  begged. 

She  laid  down  her  composing  stick,  slipped  off  her 
apron,  washed  her  hands  at  the  little  iron  sink  in  the 
corner  and  took  down  the  big  black  straw  hat  be 
hind  the  door.  She  followed  him  into  the  morning 
sunshine. 

On  the  morning  of  the  thirty-first  of  May,  1883, 
our  little  Vermont  town  was  shocked  by  news  of  a 
revolting  crime. 

On  top  the  big  green  safe  which  stands  in  a 
corner  of  our  office  are  piled  the  bound  files  of  our 
newspaper  covering  four  decades.  They  are  more 
or  less  accurate  and  certainly  a  most  detailed  history 
of  our  community  history  in  all  those  years. 

Referring  to  those  files  for  the  refreshment  of 
memory,  accuracy  of  date  and  the  proper  chronology, 
those  volumes  of  battered  calf  on  which  every  cub 
reporter  has  left  uncountable  thumb  marks  profit 
us  as  follows : 

About  half -past  six  of  May  30,  of  that  year,  Mrs. 
Henry  Osgood,  who  lived  on  a  farm  adjacent,  was 
returning  from  the  exercises  of  the  G.  A.  R.  in  Fox- 
boro  Center.  She  drove  her  old  white  horse  in  at 
the  Wheeler  place  and  was  about  to  alight  when  she 
heard  cries  of  terror  coming  from  within. 

She  hesitated  to  alight  from  her  muddy  old 
buggy  and  in  that  moment  of  hesitation  caught  sight 
of  a  face  —  a  woman's  face  —  in  one  of  the  side 
windows,  distorted  with  agony  or  terror.  Being 
alone,  badly  startled  herself,  she  belabored  her  old 


THE   GREATER   GLORY 

white  horse  and  started  down  the  road  to  McDer- 
mott's  before  she  realized  that  because  of  the  holi 
day  McDermott's  would  be  deserted.  Thus  she 
lost  a  valuable  ten  minutes. 

There  were  no  men  at  her  own  home  that  after 
noon  ;  the  nearest  farm  was  the  Adams  place,  six 
miles  to  the  north.  She  was  about  to  start  off  across 
a  weed-grown  cross-road  for  help  from  Gilberts 
Mills  when  Joel  Sibley  and  Ed  Dickinson  came  along 
in  Joel's  buckboard.  The  two  men  returned  with 
her. 

The  Wheeler  place  was  ominously  quiet.  The 
men  explored  cautiously. 

Ed  came  back. 

"Gawd!"  he  ejaculated.  "There's  enough  blood 
on  the  floor  o'  the  side  bedroom  to  float  a  boat.  And 
it's  fresh  blood !  On  your  life,  Mis'  Osgood,  don't 
you  go  in  ! " 

"It's  a  job  for  Sheriff  Crumpett !"  declared  Joel. 
"Either  old  Graveyard  Wheeler's  killed  his  woman, 
or  she's  killed  him." 

"But  where's  the  bodies  ?" 

"I  don't  know  and  I  ain't  got  the  stomach  to 
look.  But  one  or  t'other  is  somewheres  in  this 
house,  and  from  the  looks  o*  things,  when  they're 
found  they  won't  be  nice  to  look  at.  Who  goes 
for  Crumpett,  you  or  us?" 

"I'll  go  !"  announced  Mrs.  Osgood. 

Sheriff  Crumpett  from  Foxboro  Center  was  a 
Grand  Army  man  and  was  found  just  as  he  was 
leaving  G.  A.  R.  hall.  It  was  dark,  the  house  was 
eery,  when  three  buggies  came  along  the  road  and 
turned  sharply  into  the  Wheeler  yard  with  the 
sheriff  in  the  lead.  They  had  lanterns.  They 
entered  by  the  kitchen  door,  viewed  the  evidences 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  127 

of  tragedy  in  the  side  bedroom  and  began  their 
gruesome  search  of  the  premises.  It  was  a  task  for 
strong  nerves. 

They  searched  for  two  hours  and  found  nothing 
but  the  huge  blood  stain  drying  into  the  matting. 

"I  saw  Mis'  Wheeler's  face  at  the  sittin'-room 
window,  clear  as  day  !"  swore  Mrs.  Henry  Osgood. 
"And  she  looked  murdered  already." 

"We'll  have  to  wait  for  daylight  and  search  the 
farm,"  said  Sheriff  Crumpett. 

Dawn  came  between  half-past  three  and  four 
o'clock.  They  sauntered  out  in  the  gray  of  the 
misty  morning  and  resumed  the  hunt. 

Between  five  and  six  o'clock  Ed  Dickinson  tried 
to  draw  some  water  from  the  well  in  the  yard.  The 
bucket  hung  to  the  sweep  failed  to  work  properly. 
Investigating,  as  the  sun  came  up  and  daylight 
filtered  down  into  the  deep  regions  of  the  well,  he 
caught  sight  of  something  which  brought  a  hoarse, 
excited  cry  and  his  companions  on  a  run  and  ex 
plained  why  their  night's  search  of  the  premises 
had  been  fruitless. 

Scarcely  had  this  awful  thing  been  found  and  the 
first  shock  of  it  passed,  than  one  of  the  Osgood  boys, 
on  going  into  the  lower  cow  barn  to  water  the  neg 
lected  and  noisy  stock,  made  a  second  discovery 
that  completed  the  tragedy. 

Three  minutes  later  the  stiffened  hulk  of  Silent 
Wlieeler  was  cut  down  by  the  steady  hand  of  Sheriff 
Crumpett  from  a  beam  over  an  empty  stall  where  it 
had  hung  through  the  hours  of  the  night  at  the  end 
of  an  old  tierope.  Neck  and  head  were  twisted 
and  stiffened  rakishly.  Hen  Osgood  said  afterward 
that  Wheeler's  corpse  reminded  him  of  an  old  rat 
removed  from  a  trap  the  morning  after. 


128  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

It  was  a  typical  country  tragedy  of  those  days, 
the  logical  sequel  of  conditions  which  the  daily 
newspaper,  the  telephone  and  the  low-priced  auto 
mobile  are  happily  ameliorating.  But  for  a  month 
and  a  day  it  was  the  chief  topic  of  conversation  in 
the  grocery  stores,  sewing  circles  and  blacksmith 
shops  of  the  county  or  wherever  two  or  three  were 
gathered  together  in  small-town,  back-country  inter 
course. 

The  woman  with  the  terribly  reddened  hands  had 
paid  the  price  of  being  a  farmer's  wife,  of  marrying 
a  man  whose  idea  of  a  "woman"  was  a  chattel,  an 
appliance  to  help  him  run  his  farm  successfully. 

At  the  request  of  the  prostrated  stepdaughter 
the  "authorities"  (meaning  the  Foxboro  selectmen) 
assumed  charge  of  the  idiot  whom  Sheriff  Crumpett 
and  his  aids  had  not  overlooked  in  that  bare  upper 
room  the  night  they  hunted  the  place,  and  the  boy 
Artie  was  lodged  temporarily  in  a  private  asylum 
at  the  expense  of  the  town,  for  our  State  at  the 
time  had  none  of  those  model  institutions  for  the 
treatment  of  such  cases  which  it  has  since  acquired. 

Silent  Wheeler's  brothers  appeared  from  the  four 
corners  of  the  county,  and  after  making  arrangements 
for  the  most  inexpensive  burial  possible,  like  selfish, 
provincial,  hill-town  buzzards,  started  dividing  the 
Wheeler  effects.  Thereat  the  probate  court  stepped 
in  —  meaning  Judge  Farmer  in  Paris  —  and  ap 
pointed  old  Short-Cramp  Truman  as  Silent  Wheeler's 
executor.  Between  the  "authorities",  the  sullen 
bickering  brothers,  the  bereaved  stepdaughter,  Jack 
Purse,  Sam  Hod  and  Doctor  Dodd  of  the  Calvary 
Methodist  church  the  funeral  was  held,  the  two 
pitifully  plain  caskets  lowered  into  a  double  grave 
and  the  crime  became  a  thing  of  small-town  history. 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  120 

Observations  and  comment  of  representative  local 
people  —  mostly  female  —  on  the  affair  may  be 
introduced  here  as  appropriate  and  fitting  into  the 
warp  and  woof  of  our  narrative. 

At  the  Ladies  Home  Missionary  Sewing  Circle  at 
Mrs.  Dexter  Merritt's  the  following  Thursday  after 
noon  the  following  is  of  record  : 

Mrs.  Blake  Whipple,  wife  of  our  local  undertaker, 
who  frequently  assisted  her  husband  in  times  of 
professional  rush  and  who  enjoyed  something  of  a 
reputation  as  a  business  woman  prone  to  place  more 
value  on  the  shekels  than  on  sentiment  —  fitting 
attributes  perhaps  for  an  undertaker's  spouse  — 
took  a  temperamentally  commercial  view  of  the 
occurrence.  She  said  she  regretted  Blake  had 
really  went  and  put  so  much  effort  on  making  'em 
ready  for  the  fun'ral  because  Short-Cramp  Truman, 
the  vinegar-blooded  old  scoundrel,  had  beat  him 
down  on  his  bill  as  usual  and  Blake  was  too  honest 
to  make  out  the  bill  for  double  the  price  and  thus 
compromise  on  what  he  originally  expected. 

Which  lugubrious  line  'of  intercourse  prompted 
Mrs.  Felix  Taylor  to  inquire  if  any  present  supposed 
that  whoever  bought  the  property  would  relish 
drinkin'  the  well  water  after  Sarah  had  been  fished 
out  from  it,  and  Mrs.  Fred  Bellows  to  declare  that 
she  wouldn't  live  in  that  Cobb  Hill  house  after  the 
crime  which  had  been  committed  there  for  a  million 
dollars  and  twenty-three  cents  per  night.  Thus 
by  due  process  of  small-town  elimination  the  con 
versation  came  around  to  Mary  Wood. 

"I  understand,"  advanced  Mrs.  Gaylord  Miller, 
"that  she's  engaged  to  the  Purse  boy  at  the  news 
paper  office  but  they  can't  get  married  because  the 
Purse  boy  is  deep  in  debt." 


130  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

"It's  too  bad  the  house  is  haunted,"  assumed 
Mrs.  Merritt,  "or  at  least  has  got  such  gruesome 
associations,  because  it  really  ain't  so  far  away  from 
Paris  but  what  them  two  could  marry  and  live  there 
without  havin'  no  rent  to  pay  and  make  up  the  sum 
for  the  boy's  debts." 

"But  she  couldn't  do  that,"  declared  Judge 
Farmer's  wife.  "John  said  in  my  hearin'  that  the 
place  and  furniture  and  tools  and  stock  would  have 
to  be  put  up  to  auction.  That's  the  law  ! " 

"Yet  if  Mary's  goin'  to  get  the  money  from  it 
after  the  estate's  settled,  why  does  the  law  go  to  all 
that  bother?"  Mrs.  Howard  wanted  to  know. 
"Why  not  just  turn  it  over  to  her  and  let  her  marry 
who  she  pleases  and  live  there  without  all  that  fuss 
and  expense?" 

"She  ain't  goin'  to  get  the  money  from  it,"  went 
on  Mrs.  Farmer,  looking  very  important  as  she 
imparted  her  legal  knowledge  as  became  the  wife 
of  our  leading  barrister  and  judge  of  probate.  "The 
law  don't  take  no  account  o'  stepchildren  and  Mary's 
a  stepchild.  The  crazy  boy  Artie  is  the  only  heir. 
The  money '11  be  spent  for  his  keep.  The  Lord 
knows  taxes  is  high  enough  in  the  Foxboros  without 
folks  over  there  havin'  to  pay  for  his  confinement  in 
no  madhouse  when  there's  money  available  if  only 
took.  I  hear  Short-Cramp  Truman's  goin'  to  send 
him  away  to  some  place  down  in  Massachusetts." 

"Then  Mary  doesn't  get  anything?"  demanded 
Mrs.  David  Dodd,  the  minister's  wife. 

"Why  should  she?  Let  her  marry  the  Purse  boy 
and  have  him  support  her." 

"Yes,"  added  Mrs.  Elisha  Porter,  twice  married 
and  reasonably  willing  to  try  it  again.  "At  her  age 
I  was  married  and  had  two  offspring  ! " 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  131 

Everybody  always  hastened  to  head  Mrs.  Elisha 
Porter  off  when  she  started  in  on  her  "offspring" 
because  in  all  the  State  of  Vermont  there  were  no 
other  "offspring"  as  remarkable  as  Mrs.  Elisha 
Porter's.  So  Mrs.  Dodd  said  quickly  : 

"But  it's  kind  of  rough  on  the  poor  little  thing. 
And  she's  already  had  such  a  hard  girlhood  !  It's  a 
wonder  to  me  she's  the  sweet,  gentle  little  body  that 
she  is  and  not  more  like  —  some  other  unfortunates 
in  this  town  that  could  be  helped  more  than  they 
are." 

"Mibb  Henderson?"  inquired  Mrs.  Taylor. 

"Yes,"  declared  the  minister's  wife  in  righteous 
indignation.  "Mibb  Henderson!" 

"But  I  dare  say  that  Mibb  will  take  care  of  her 
self  and  make  a  better  marriage  than  the  Wood 
girl,"  commented  Mrs.  Miller. 

General  silence  followed,  broken  only  by  the  click 
of  knitting  needles  or  the  snip  of  shears.  It  was  to 
be  expected  that  Mrs.  Dodd  would  stand  up  for  the 
stepdaughter.  It  was  entirely  consistent  with  her 
husband's  profession.  As  for  the  others,  the  fact 
that  Silent  Wheeler  had  done  the  thing  which  he  had, 
reduced  him  to  that  status  of  general  misapprobation 
where  it  was  perfectly  permissible  for  these  good 
women  to  air  themselves  after  the  tenor  of  their 
souls.  The  strange  feature  was  that  not  one  of  the 
dozen  or  more  had  a  single  good  word  to  say  for  the 
woman  with  the  terribly  reddened  hands.  But 
those  who  know  New  England  can  recognize  that 
this  was  not  because  they  felt  no  compassion  for  her 
whose  life  was  done.  It  was  because  each  and  every 
one  of  them  realized  the  mockery  which  marriage 
far  too  often  was  for  country  women,  and  their 
reticence  and  indifference  was  that  of  trying  to  sup- 


132  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

pose  that  no  such  conditions  existed  because  they 
were  never  brought  into  conversation. 

"I  suppose  Mary  Wood  knows  she  ain't  got 
nothin'  comin'  to  her?"  This  from  Mrs.  Miller, 
directed  to  the  Judge's  wife,  who  was  the  legal 
authority  of  the  dozen. 

Mrs.  Farmer  was  a  long  time  replying. 

"That's  the  pitiful  part  of  it,"  she  said  finally. 
"It's  the  job  which  my  husband  and  Mr.  Truman 
hate  most  to  bring  themselves  to  do.  She  don't 
dream  of  such  a  thing ;  she  was  over  to  Mrs.  Seaver's 
yesterday  to  see  about  havin'  a  black  dress  made  to 
wear  in  the  newspaper  office  and  she  said  that  the 
least  she  could  do  was  to  keep  the  home  as  near  as 
possible  like  it  was  when  her  mother  left  it." 


CHAPTER   XIII 

SLUG  TRUMAN   CONTINUES    TO    BE    A    SPORT    BUT 
COMES  ON  A  SAD  ERRAND. 

MARY  sat  on  the  side  porch  of  the  Cobb  Hill  place, 
looking  over  the  tops  of  the  gnarled  trees  in  the  lower 
orchard  at  the  far-flung  valley  below.  The  country 
side  was  leafing  out  more  luxuriously  with  each 
passing  week,  into  the  deep  calm  greens  of  mid 
summer. 

She  had  bought  herself  some  cheap  black  stuff  at 
the  Bon  Ton  store  and  Mrs.  Amos  Seaver,  who  did 
"dressmaking  reasonable",  had  fashioned  it  into  a 
mourning  dress.  Her  dark  hair  was  gathered  low 
at  the  back  of  her  head.  Her  face  held  an  un 
healthy  pallor,  and  her  dark  wistful  eyes  were  red 
dened  with  traces  of  many  tears. 

It  was  hard  for  her  to  realize  as  she  sat  on  the 
steps  that  the  stepfather  was  dead,  that  he  would 
never  sit  more  by  the  kitchen  fire  during  the  long 
evenings,  eternally  brooding,  nursing  the  poker, 
lifting  the  warped  red  covers  and  spitting  with 
sharp  hisses  into  the  stove.  It  was  hard  to  believe 
that  the  long,  anxious  evening  hours,  when  her 
mother  awaited  his  homecoming  with  the  greenish 
fire  smouldering  in  his  inhuman  eyes,  were  over  for 
all  time.  But  it  was  hardest  to  realize  that  she 
would  never  see  her  mother  again.  The  bitterest 
part  of  her  sorrow  was  that  she  had  been  able  to  go 
home  but  four  times  in  the  brief  year  which  had 


134  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

passed,  that  her  mother  had  seen  Jack  but  once, 
that  the  inability  to  get  home  because  of  finances  or 
transportation  was  tantamount  to  neglect  and  that 
the  woman  had  gone  with  no  one  at  hand  to  help 
her.  And  yet  she  had  gone  and  was  out  of  her 
earthly  Golgotha.  That  was  something. 

About  the  place  were  a  hundred  evidences  of  the 
man  who  had  died  so  terribly,  —  and  of  her  mother's 
personality.  At  the  edge  of  a  narrow,  newly- 
planted  garden  by  the  fence  she  saw  a  trowel  which 
had  been  laid  down  by  her  mother's  hand  but  a  few 
days,  not  over  a  week  bygone.  A  couple  of  her 
mother's  big  white  hens  came  leisurely  around  the 
corner  of  the  house,  searching  philosophically  for 
grubs,  crooning  to  themselves  and  darting  forward  at 
a  fly  together.  Tom  Tinker,  the  big  tiger  cat  who 
had  purred  in  her  mother's  lap  and  kept  her  com 
pany  on  many  lonesome  evenings,  came  out  of  the 
shed  door,  started  across  the  yard  and  stopped  mid 
way,  catlike,  to  scratch  a  particularly  inaccessible 
spot  on  his  anatomy.  Two  of  the  Holsteins  were 
browsing  along  down  in  the  lower  lane  and  toward 
the  barnyard  bars  as  the  sun  sank  lower.  It  seemed 
strange  the  homely  little  world  she  had  known  from 
girlhood  could  be  so  much  the  same  and  yet  so 
different. 

She  tried  to  think  out  her  plans  for  the  future. 
If  Jack  would  have  accepted  the  money,  she  would 
have  brought  herself  to  sell  the  place  and  use  the 
proceeds  in  his  financial  predicament.  But  he  had 
scolded  her  for  thinking  of  such  a  thing.  She 
thought  that  she  could  get  one  of  the  Osgood  boys 
to  work  the  farm  for  her  and  get  enough  out  of  it  to 
keep  up  the  taxes  and  help  out  their  finances  after 
she  and  Jack  were  married.  She  was  thankful  that 


THE   GREATER  GLORY  135 

old  Peter  Whipple  at  the  bank  had  refused  her  step 
father  a  mortgage  on  the  place  last  year  when  he 
wanted  cash  to  take  over  the  Perkins  woodlot.  At 
least  she  did  not  have  that  mortgage  to  worry  over 
and  pay. 

She  was  trying  to  think  of  some  man  and  wife 
who  might  be  glad  of  the  opportunity  to  live  at  the 
place  and  run  it  for  her  when  she  heard  the  rumble 
of  buggy  wheels  and  the  click  of  steel  tires  in  the 
sand  on  the  other  side  of  the  wall  and  the  maples. 
The  next  instant  a  spirited  horse  spanked  into  the 
yard,  his  hoofs  becoming  immediately  noiseless  as 
he  stepped  on  the  short-cropped  lawn. 

She  was  expecting  Jack  to  come  out  after  work 
and  return  to  the  village  with  her,  for  her  finances 
demanded  that  she  be  back  at  her  typecase  in  the 
morning.  But  it  was  unusual  that  Jack  should  have 
hired  a  livery  rig. 

Then  she  recognized  the  horse  before  she  recog 
nized  the  driver,  for  the  driver's  body  was  momen 
tarily  obscured  by  the  little  animal's  head.  It  was 
Monday- Washing. 

"Herbert !"  she  said,  arising. 

He  fastened  the  mare  to  the  hammock  ring  in 
the  corner  of  the  house.  He  came  across  and  took 
her  trembling,  outstretched  hand,  pulling  off  his 
cap  as  he  did  so  and  freeing  the  mammoth  cowlick 
which  seemed  surprised  to  find  itself  uncovered  and 
rose  up  as  much  as  to  say :  "Well,  and  whereabouts 
in  the  world  is  this  place,  anyhow  ?  " 

"I  went  to  Mis'  Mather's  place  and  asked  for 
you,  and  she  said  you  were  out  here  to  your  folks's 
place  gatherin'  up  some  things.  So  I  just  come  on 
out  — " 

"I'm  glad  you  did,  Herbert.     I  don't  know  any 


136  THE   GREATER  GLORY 

one  whom  I  would  rather  see  just  now  than  yourself, 
excepting  — " 

"I  understand,"  he  said.  It  was  one  time  when 
he  did  not  "put  his  foot  in  it." 

She  placed  a  big  armchair  for  him  on  the  porch  and 
sat  down  opposite. 

"It  come  kind  o'  sudden  an  —  tough,  didn't  it?" 

"Yes,"  she  said. 

The  conversation  lagged.     He  tortured  his  hat. 

"I  —  come  —  on  business  for  my  father.  It's 
about  your  estate."  ~  '.  .  .• 

A  little  fear  stabbed  in  the  girl's  heart.  Like  all 
country  people  she  had  a  nameless  dread  of  that 
great,  all-powerful,  ofttimes  cruel  thing  known  as 
the  Law.  And  "business"  and  "estate"  were  terms 
of  law.  The  pallor  on  her  face  deepened  as  she 
waited  for  Slug  to  make  his  errand  known. 

"Yes?"  she  prompted  faintly. 

But  Slug  was  in  no  hurry. 

"You  —  you  think  a  lot  of  Purse,  don't  you, 
Mary  ?  "  He  did  not  wait  for  her  to  make  a  painful 
reply.  "I  see  you  do  and  that  for  me  it  ain't  no 
use.  I  guess  I  warn't  cut  out  to  have  the  kind  o' 
wife  such  as  you.  A  sportin'  man  don't  cry  over 
spilt  milk  nor  when  the  cards  goes  against  him.  And 
life's  more  or  less  of  a  sportin'  proposition,  anyhow, 
but  love  is  a  stacked  deck  !  Oh,  hell ! " 

He  did  not  mean  to  be  coarse.  The  exclamation 
came  from  his  heart. 

"  Herbert  - 

"Why  don't  you  marry  him,  Mary?  Is  it  true 
that  he's  payin'  up  debts  the  law  don't  require  him 
to  pay  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"He  wouldn't  do  that  unless  he  was  more  than  on 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  137 

the  level  — '  I  don't  think.  I'm  glad  if  I  can't  have 
you,  that  a  chap's  going  to  be  your  man  who's  like 
that.  I'll  —  feel  —  safer." 

"You'll  feel  safer!" 

"I'd  hate  to  think  o'  you  married  to  a  man  that 
grew  to  be  like  your  stepfather  was  —  at  least  what 
the  town  believed." 

The  girl  turned  her  face  away. 

"Mary,  there's  a  lot  o'  jokin'  about  a  girl  bein' 
a  'sister'  to  a  man  after  she's  give  him  the  mitten. 
But  —  I  sort  o'  wish  —  seein'  I'm  cut  out  by 
Jack  Purse  that  you'd  look  on  me  same  as  a  brother." 

"Herbert,"  she  said  after  a  painful  interval, 
"I  hope  it  will  make  you  happy  to  know  that  I've 
thought  of  you  that  way  from  the  night  when  you 
first  invited  me  into  your  house.  Maybe  that's 
why  I  let  you  —  kiss  —  me  —  and  yet  didn't  come 
to  think  of  you  quite  like  I've  come  to  think  of 
Jack." 

"Then  you  don't  mind  talkin'  about  yourself  to 
me?"  he  asked  after  the  ruination  of  the  cap  was 
nearly  completed.  "Not  so  long  as  I  mean  it  all 
right?" 

"What  can  I  possibly  say,  Herbert?" 

"Mary,  ain't  you  got  no  folks  nowhere  that  could 
give  you  a  hand  in  this  scrape?" 

"No,"  she  replied.  "Both  my  mother's  brothers 
were  killed  at  Malvern  Hill.  My  stepfather's  folks 
have  no  interest  in  me  nor  have  I  any  claim  on  them ; 
I  wouldn't  press  it  even  if  I  had.  My  own  father 
had  a  couple  of  brothers ;  one  of  them  went  out  to 
Kansas  and  was  killed  by  the  Indians.  There's  one 
left  still,  I  think,  —  Uncle  Josiah  who  was  last 
heard  from  in  Chicago.  I'm  —  pretty  —  much  — 
alone;  that  is,  excepting  for  you  and  Jack." 


138  THE   GREATER  GLORY 

"Mary,  —  ain't,  there  no  way  I  could  help  you?" 

"No,  Herbert,"  she  said  with  sudden  grimness  in 
her  voice.  "This  happens  to  be  one  of  those  times 
in  life  when  we  just  have  to  shut  our  teeth  and  stiffen 
our  will  power  and  face  our  problems  and  solve  them 
for  ourselves.  I  don't  ask  pity.  I  don't  ask 
charity.  All  I  want  is  friendship  —  and  a  fair 
chance  to  work  and  live  and  be  happy  with  those 
I  love.  The  shock  of  losing  mother  was  awful ; 
naturally  I  feel  badly  and  will  continue  to  feel  badly 
for  a  long  time.  But  perhaps  I've  been  sent  all  the 
hard  experiences  of  my  girlhood  to  make  me  strong 
for  the  battle  royal  I've  got  alongside  Jack  now; 
perhaps  there'll  come  a  day  when  I'll  understand 
why  my  way  wasn't  made  easy  up  to  now  and 
be  thankful  because  the  experiences  I've  had  made 
me  strong  and  self-reliant  and  poised  and  equipped 
to  fight  that  battle  alongside  the  man  I  marry  —  to 
make  me  the  proper  wife  for  him.  I'm  not  feeling 
sorry  a  bit  for  myself ;  it's  Jack  and  mother  —  and 
you  —  that  I'm  feeling  sorry  for.  As  for  myself  — 
I'll  manage  somehow ! " 

"Mary,  if  ever  the  time  comes  when  you  need 
me  —  same  as  you  might  need  a  brother  - 

"Thank  you  —  deeply,  sincerely,  from  the  bottom 
of  my  heart,  Herbert." 

"I  just  come  out  here  to  give  you  a  letter  that  dad 
wanted  I  should  see  you  got.  That's  the  business 
I  meant  about  your  estate." 

"A  letter?" 

She  took  the  long  envelope  in  a  hand  that  trembled 
nervously.  She  carefully  undid  the  flap  and  read 
the  enclosure.  One  hand  held  the  letter  before  her. 
The  other  fumbled  in  her  waist.  It  found  her  small 
lace  handkerchief.  The  handkerchief  was  suddenly 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  139 

pressed  tightly  against  her  lips.  Then  the  letter 
was  lowered,  the  face  with  the  handkerchief  held 
tightly  against  it,  averted.  As  she  got  to  her  feet, 
Short-Cramp's  message  fluttered  out  onto  the  lawn. 

"What's  the  trouble,  Mary?" 

In  a  voice  which  was  an  effort  to  keep  from  break 
ing  and  betraying  her  brave  words  of  a  moment 
before,  she  said : 

"Your  father  has  just  sent  word  that  I  mustn't 
touch  nor  carry  away  anything  from  here  but  my 
mother's  and  my  own  personal  property.  He  says  — 
the  law  doesn't  recognize  anybody  but  Artie  as  the 
heir  —  step-children  don't  count." 

"It's  hard,  Mary.  I've  known  it  from  the  first. 
But  don't  blame  the  Governor.  He  didn't  make  the 
law." 

"I  thought  —  I  thought  —  maybe  I  was  going 
to  have  the  place  and  — " 

"It's  got  to  be  auctioned,"  the  boy  stated  miser 
ably. 

Independence  Day  arrived.  Five  weeks  slipped 
away  and  came  August  sixteenth,  the  annual  observ 
ance  of  the  Battle  of  Bennington  and  a  Vermont 
holiday.  The  leaves  and  bowered  country  had  lost 
the  virility  of  summer  freshness.  They  were  dusty 
and  faded  and  gradually  streaked  with  yellow  and 
brown.  Time  was  going  relentlessly  along  into 
another  autumn.  The  village  housewives  began 
covering  their  rose  bushes  and  flower  beds  with 
sheeting  and  papers  at  night  to  preserve  their 
beauty  for  a  few  weeks  longer. 

Canny  old  Truman  and  the  other  two  dummy 
executors  decided  to  wait  until  after  the  crops  were 
in  before  holding  the  Wheeler  auction.  The  farm- 


140  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

ers  would  then  have  time  and  money  to  make  the 
sale  a  financial  success. 

It  came  one  day  early  in  Indian  summer.  Jack 
found  the  girl  on  that  night  of  the  Wheeler  sale  down 
in  the  lower  orchard.  She  had  no  other  place  to 
go.  She  had  climbed  up  on  the  hoary,  gnarled  old 
arm  of  the  russet  apple-tree,  the  only  one  in  the 
orchard,  —  the  place  where  as  a  little  girl  she  had 
played  through  violet  vistaed  hours  with  her  dolls. 
There  was  no  one  to  comfort  her,  no  one  left  from 
those  Other  Years  but  the  old  russet  apple-tree. 
And  soon  —  all  too  soon  —  that  would  be  but  a 
memory. 

A  few  feet  away  was  the  hole  in  the  stone  wall 
where  she  had  first  seen  the  little  Haskins  boy  who 
had  played  with  her  for  a  little  time  and  then  moved 
away  and  grown  up  and  become  a  minister  and  gone 
as  a  missionary  to  India.  Where  was  he  now,  and 
did  he  ever  think  of  the  girl  on  the  adjoining  farm 
in  Foxboro  who  had  dared  to  follow  him  through  the 
hole  in  the  stone  wall  under  boulders  that  might 
easily  slide  off  and  crush  them  ?  She  wondered. 

Over  between  the  two  scrawny  astrachan  trees 
was  the  big  boulder  where  she  had  always  sought 
safety  from  the  wicked  knives  of  the  mowing  machine 
when  they  cut  the  grass  in  the  orchard.  She  had 
played  mud  pies  there  with  Nellie  Harrington,  who 
came  down  from  the  Harrington  place  which  had 
burned  years  and  years  ago  and  was  now  only  a 
blackberry-grown  cellar  hole  and  a  stump  of  brick 
chimney.  Nellie  had  married  one  of  the  Blodgett 
boys  and  died  with  the  coming  of  a  little  child. 

A  score  of  old  familiar  things  she  saw :  The  one 
pure  white  stone  in  the  wall  where  on  a  winter's  day 
she  had  come  face  to  face  with  a  fox ;  the  outline  of 


THE   GREATER  GLORY  141 

the  frog-pond  in  the  swamp  where  some  men  had 
once  shot  an  ailing  horse;  the  bars  into  the  wood 
lot  where  the  youngest  Osgood  boy  had  started  a 
fire  with  stolen  matches  and  nearly  ruined  a  town 
ship  ;  raspberry  and  blackberry  bushes  where  she 
had  watched  for  the  first  autumn  fruit  to  ripen. 
Every  feature  of  the  landscape  had  its  associations. 

"Old  apple-tree!  —  dear  old  russet  apple-tree!" 
she  choked.  "I'm  going  away  now  and  I  can't 
come  back  any  more.  You  have  always  seemed 
human  to  me.  Will  you  remember  the  little  girl 
who  played  dolls  here,  and  brought  cookies  and 
sugared  bread-and-butter  here,  and  came  here  for 
solace  when  she  had  been  punished  for  some  dis 
obedience  of  childhood?  Will  you  remember  her, 
old  apple-tree,  —  and  think  of  her  as  having  gone 
out  into  the  world  from  this  day  a  woman  ? " 

A  breeze  blowing  over  the  valley  stirred  the 
branches.  It  seemed  as  though  the  tree  had  replied. 
She  stole  her  arms  about  its  battered  scaly  trunk  and 
placed  her  fair  face  close  against  its  surface. 

Her  face  was  streaming  tears  when  Jack  came  upon 
her. 

"Mary,"  he  said  with  a  wonderful  tenderness  in 
his  rebuke,  "you  promised  you  weren't  going  to  the 
auction  to-day ;  you  said  you  were  going  to  stay  with 
the  Osgoods  until  after  the  agony  was  over.  That's 
why  I  worked  at  the  office.  Otherwise  I  should  have 
tried  to  be  with  you." 

She  slipped  off  the  apple-tree's  low  bough  as  a  little 
child  climbs  down  from  the  knee  of  an  aged  grand 
parent,  —  slipped  down  and  stood  before  her  lover 
with  her  back  against  the  tree. 

He  looked  into  her  face  and  he  knew  what  she  had 
that  day  suffered  and  was  suffering  now. 


142  THE   GREATER  GLORY 

"Mary  !  "  he  said  huskily. 

"I  never  felt  more  lonely  in  my  life  than  I  do  now, 
Jack,"  she  said.  "Up  to  now  I  have  been  only  a 
girl.  After  this  I'm  a  woman,  —  a  woman  and 
alone.  A  man  can  be  alone  and  lonely  and  not 
mind,  but  a  lonely  woman  is  the  most  miserable 
creature  in  God's  world." 

"Mary,"  he  said,  "I've  been  talking  to  Mr.  Hod. 
He  was  at  the  auction  you  know,  and  he  saw  you. 
He  made  me  come  out  early  and  —  and  —  take  care 
of  you.  Mary,  dear,  I'm  alone,  too.  I'm  alone 
and  in  debt.  I  have  my  own  way  to  make,  my  living 
to  earn  under  a  handicap.  You  know  what  that 
handicap  is  and  what  it  means.  But  Mary,  since  this 
has  happened,  since  you  too  have  been  left  alone, 
since  my  talk  with  Mr.  Hod  and  his  kindness  to  me, 
I've  come  to  realize  what  it  means  for  you  and  I  to 
try  to  solve  this  problem  alone  and  apart.  I —I  want 
you,  Mary.  I  want  you  to  help  and  encourage  me ; 
to  work  with  me ;  to  be  at  home  when  I  come  there 
at  night  after  trying  to  fight  my  way  ahead  in 
the  day.  I  want  to  feel  that  nothing  is  going  to 
part  us  but  —  death.  I  want  you  to  marry  me, 
Mary,  —  marry  me  and  fight  with  me,  and  share 
with  me  the  glory  of  winning  the  victory.  Perhaps 
I  have  no  right  to  ask  it.  I'm  a  poor  man.  But 
we  are  both  alone  and  poor  now.  "Why  should  it 
be  any  harder  to  fight  our  way  together  than  sepa 
rately  —  and  alone  ?" 

"It  would  be  —  easier  —  Jack ! " 

"Will  you  marry  me,  Mary  ?" 

"When?"  she  asked  fearfully. 

"Now!"  he  said.  "To-night!  Mr.  Hod  said  — 
and  I  see  how  truly  he  knew  —  that  you  would  need 
me  to-night,  especially.  Oh,  Mary  !  I  —  love  — 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  143 

you  !     I  want  you  !     Come  with  me  and  let's  live  — 
together ! " 

Under  the  old  apple-tree  where  she  had  played  with 
her  dolls  and  brought  spiced  cookies  and  dried  her 
childhood  tears  and  fell  on  many  golden  afternoons 
a-dreaming  with  books  of  lords  and  fine  ladies  and 
knight-errants  and  charming  princes  spread  before 
her  but  forgotten,  she  told  him  that  she  would  marry 
him  —  that  night. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

AND  so  THEY  WERE  MARRIED  —  BUT  DID  THEY 
LIVE  HAPPILY  EVER  AFTER  AS  THE  STORY  BOOKS 
HAVE  HAD  IT  SlNCE  THE  DAYS  WHEN  THE  OLD 
EARTH  WAS  YOUNG? 

LIFE  holds  many  mysteries,  but  among  them 
is  none  greater  than  this  :  That  the  lives  of  some  folk 
should  lead  into  pleasant  places  and  beside  still  waters, 
that  most  of  their  troubles  should  be  small  ones,  that 
their  days  should  be  filled  with  pleasure  and  their 
nights  with  untroubled  slumber.  And  that  there 
should  be  other  folk,  in  no  way  responsible,  for  whom 
existence  is  a  pathway  through  many  shadows,  for 
whom  many  of  the  most  en  joy  able  of  life's  experiences 
are  denied,  whose  days  are  filled  with  endless  labor 
and  evenings  with  heartache. 

These  are  the  things  understood  only  by  those  who 
with  clean  hands  and  a  pure  heart  aspire  to  the  secret 
places  of  the  Most  High  :  That  there  is  a  Glory  which 
comes  to  these  other  folk  —  a  Greater  Glory  than 
anything  which  men  of  little  hearts  and  little  minds 
conceive. 

This,  our  tale,  is  a  love  story.  But  for  the  tired 
scribe  whose  pen  scratches  line  after  line  across  the 
paper,  it  is  more  than  that.  It  is  the  Greater  Glory 
as  he  has  seen  it  descend  upon  a  woman.  It  is  the 
narrative  of  a  girl's  love  for  a  man  and  the  still 
greater  love  for  the  sons  of  that  man  which  she  bore 
him  as  has  been  set  down  before.  But  it  does  not  end 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  145 

with  a  wedding.  Few  of  us,  indeed,  live  "happily 
ever  after."  It  ends  with  the  coming  of  the  Greater 
Glory  as  will  be  subsequently  set  forth.  It  goes 
beyond  the  commencement  of  courtship.  It  follows 
onward  into  some  of  the  deep  and  sacred  tragedies 
and  dramas  of  plain,  ordinary,  day-to-day  living. 
And  the  best  part  of  it  is  this  :  This  is  the  story  of 
Everywoman,  —  your  wife  and  my  wife,  your 
mother  and  my  mother  —  a  dedication,  a  eulogy, 
a  testament. 

Mary  Wood  married  Jack  Purse  on  the  evening 
of  the  day  of  the  auction.  She  married  him  in  the 
little  front  parlor  of  the  Methodist  parsonage  on 
School  Street  before  the  Reverend  David  Dodd,  who 
is  now  sainted  old  "Doctor"  Dodd  of  the  Calvary 
Methodist  Church.  The  only  witnesses  were  Mrs. 
Dodd,  who  blew  her  nose,  shed  tears  and  smiled 
simultaneously  all  through  the  ceremony,  which 
after  all  was  so  short  and  simple  as  to  seem  as  though 
something  were  horribly  illegal  somewhere  at  starting 
immediately  to  live  together  afterward. 

If,  on  the  evening  of  her  wedding  day,  Mary  gave 
a  thought  to  the  dreams  she  had  dreamed,  of  the  gor 
geous  wedding  which  she  had  imagined  wras  coming 
on  some  wonder  night  in  the  future,  of  wealth  and  as 
piration  and  golden  opportunity  which  married  life 
was  to  open  to  her,  no  one  knew  it  but  herself.  If 
there  was  the  least  twinge  of  bittersweet  disappoint 
ment  that  this  simple  little  exchange  of  promises 
before  the  kindly  minister  was  her  "great  wonder 
night",  it  never  disturbed  the  outer  surface  of  the 
love  for  the  young  chap  whom  she  raised  her  sweet 
face  up  toward  when  the  thing  was  done  and  called 
him  husband.  Despite  her  mother's  experience,  her 


146  THE   GREATER  GLORY 

mother's  bitterness,  the  girlhood  of  warning,  she  had 
married  finally  for  love,  on  eighteen  dollars  a  week, 
and  before  her  lay  the  same  variety  of  matrimony 
which  year  in  and  year  out  has  dotted  the  continent 
with  millions  and  millions  of  homes  and  makes  up, 
forsooth,  the  Great  America.  But  very  worthwhile 
homes  they  are,  though  built  on  a  very  great  amount 
of  affection,  the  courage  of  ignorance,  and  a  pitifully 
meager  amount  of  money. 

The  boy  and  girl  came  out  and  stood  on  the  side 
walk. 

"Mr.  Hod  says  we  are  to  come  up  to  his  house  and 
spend  our  first  night  together,"  Jack  said  huskily. 

At  the  top  of  Maple  Street  Hill,  before  Sam's  house, 
she  paused.  For  a  moment  she  clasped  his  arm,  her 
face  against  his  shoulder. 

"Oh,  Jack,"  she  said  softly,  "I  guess  —  I  guess  - 
I'm  yours  now ;  yours  to  love,  work  with,  play  with, 
suffer  with,  sorrow  with  —  yours  to  abuse,  neglect, 
forsake.  My  life  is  yours  now,  Jack.  Like  the  verse 
.  in  the  Bible  :  Where  you  live  I  will  live.  What  you 
suffer,  I  will  suffer.  Your  joys  shall  be  my  joys ; 
your  successes  my  successes.  I  don't  mind  what  the 
future  brings  only  this :  Be  good  to  me  Jack,  - 
take  me  and  do  what  you  will  with  me.  But  be  as 
kind  as  you  can,  Jack,  that  some  day  I  may  be  able 
to  show  mother  she  was  wrong  !  " 

And  man  and  wife,  they  passed  in  to  Sam  Hod's 
house  for  their  first  supper  together. 

At  the  moment  that  Jack  Purse  and  Mary  Wood 
entered  Sam  Hod's  house  together,  another  girl 
came  out  of  the  Henderson  house  and  strolled  lei 
surely  down  Main  Street. 

Near  the  corner  of  Union  Street  she  heard  the  rattle 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  147 

of  buggy  wheels  behind  her  and  the  hoarse  bark  of  an 
excited  dog.  She  turned.  Slug  Truman,  driving 
Monday- Washing  with  Cardinal  Wolsey  on  the  seat 
beside  him,  stopped  at  the  curb  beside  her. 

"Mibb  —  come  here,"  he  called  thickly. 

She  switched  her  jacket  to  her  other  arm  and 
strolled  across  the  strip  of  sod  to  the  buggy  side. 

"Well!"  she  demanded.  "What  ails  you,  Slug? 
You  look  like  a  case  of  seven- weeks'  sickness." 

"Anything  on  this  evenin',  Mibb  ?" 

"Nothin'  special." 

"Get  in  and  take  a  ride  with  me,  Mibb." 

"Where  you  goin'?" 

"Get  in  and  take  a  ride  with  me,  and  I'll  tell  you. 
It's  awful  important,  Mibb." 

She  cast  an  uneasy  look  at  his  heavy  features,  but 
she  calculated  she  could  take  care  of  herself  with  any 
man  that  she  ever  see  wearin'  pants  and  so  she  got  in 
beside  the  boy  and  they  rumbled  away  in  the  sum 
mer's  evening. 

"Mibb  —  Mary  Wood  has  just  married  Jack 
Purse !  " 

"She's  what?" 

"Married  Jack  Purse  —  to-night !  to-night !  —  in 
the  Methodist  parsonage.  They're  up  to  supper 
together  at  Hod's  right  now.  They're  man  and  — 
wife!" 

"The  — little  — fool!"  Mibb  ejaculated.  "But 
why  the  ding-ding  are  vou  takin'  on  about  it, 
Slug?" 

"I  guess  I'm  —  I'm  —  jealous,  Mibb." 

"Jealous  of  who  —  Purse ?" 

"Of  just  bein'  married  and  have  somebody  to  care 
about  me." 

"  Gosh,  but  you're  an  awful  fathead  !  " 


148  THE   GREATER  GLORY 

"Don't  talk  to  me  like  that,  Mibb.  It  hurts!" 
He  sloughed  down  into  the  seat.  "Hell,"  he  told  her 
miserably,  "you  don't  know  what  a  happy  home  we 
got  up  there  on  Main  Street,  —  dad  sick,  Esmeralda 
stage-struck  and  always  bossin'  Ma,  and  Ma  with  no 
more  spine  than  a  —  than  a  —  than  a  fish  !  I'm  sick 
of  it,  Mibb  —  plumb  sick.  I  wish  it  was  different, 
Mibb  —  so  different." 

She  looked  at  him  out  of  the  corner  of  her  world- 
wise  young  eye. 

"Just  how  sick  is  your  dad,  anyhow?" 

"Pretty  bad,  Mibb.  He  may  go  off  any  day  now. 
He's  hit  pretty  hard." 

"Slug,"  she  said  quietly,  "let's  run  away  and  get 
married  too ! " 

"Let's  what!"  he  cried. 

"Let's  run  away  and  get  married.  Mary  Wood 
and  Jack  Purse  aren't  the  only  ones  who  can  play  the 
game." 

"You'd  —  marry  —  me  —  a  great  big  lummox 
that's  always  puttin'  his  hoof  in  everything?" 

"Yes,"  she  declared  determinedly,  as  though  she 
had  arrived  at  her  decision  long  beforehand,  "I'll 
marry  you,  Herb  Truman." 

"W-h-e-n?"  he  demanded  blankly. 

"Any  old  time  you  want  me  !" 

The  big,  fat,  rosy  young  man  turned  pale.  Then 
the  blood  surged  into  his  face  again  and  made  it 
beefy  red. 

"You  mean  it,  Mibb?" 

"You  don't  imagine  I'm  talkin'  in  my  sleep  do 
you,  on  a  question  of  so  much  importance  ?  " 

"Oh  — Mibb!" 

"There's  no  need  for  you  to  get  maudlin  about  it, 
as  I  see,"  she  reminded  him. 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  149 

"But  you  called  Mary  a  —  a  —  little  fool." 

"Sure  she's  a  little  fool.  Because  Jack  Purse  isn't 
situated  like  you're  situated." 

Herb  should  have  taken  warning  from  that  signif 
icant  declaration,  but  he  did  not.  The  lad  was 
heartsick,  lonesome  and  miserable.  It  wasn't  the 
girl  he  was  in  love  with,  it  was  love  and  comradeship 
and  consolation  in  his  life.  He  recovered  from  his 
lugubrious  surprise  and  like  the  boy  eternal  that  he 
was  in  his  heart,  he  suddenly  began  to  enthuse  with 
the  proposition  the  Henderson  girl  had  suggested. 

"The  evening  train  is  comin'  down  the  valley," 
he  cried.  "Hear  the  whistle?  Mibb  !  —  let's  — 
let's  elope!" 

"The  sky's  the  limit!"  she  retorted  brazenly. 
"Yes,  let's!" 

"  The  station  !     I  wonder  can  we  make  it  ?" 

"We  could  if  I  had  those  lines." 

"Giddap,  Monday-Washin' ! "  he  cried  suddenly. 
And  he  struck  the  little  mare  with  the  whip. 

Down  through  the  village  they  were  carried  swiftly 
and  around  the  corner  of  Depot  Street  toward  the 
station.  Just  once  Herb  wondered  if  he  might  not 
regret  this  thing  she  had  proposed.  But  Mary  Wood 
was  lost  to  him  now,  —  lost  for  always.  He  might  as 
well  take  second  choice  while  he  had  the  chance. 
Besides,  he  didn't  want  to  endure  the  coming  week  of 
readjustment  alone.  A  wife  of  his  own  might  help. 
And  so  he  refused  to  harken  to  consequences. 

And  they  made  their  train. 

"  We'll  just  see  who  gets  the  most  out  of  marriage  ! " 
declared  Mibb  Henderson  grimly  and  with  abandon. 

"What?"  demanded  Herb  above  the  rumble  of 
the  vehicle. 

"I'm  not  talkin'  to  you;  I'm  talkin'  to  myself. 


150  THE   GREATER  GLORY 

I  was  making  a  remark  about  something  Mary 
Wood  said  once.  It's  nothing  you  need  lose  any 
sleep  over,  now  ! " 

So,  with  a  far  different  kind  of  feeling  in  her  heart, 
another  girl  in  the  office  of  our  little  local  paper  went 
that  night  to  her  marriage. 

And  Slug  Truman  married  Mabel  Henderson, 
"the  nine-o'clock-girl",  instead  of  Mary  Wood,  and 
up  in  heaven  an  angel  sighed  a  couple  of  times  and 
then  with  a  philosophical  remark  which  no  one  in 
heaven  above  overheard,  flew  about  its  celestial 
business. 


PART  II 


CHAPTER  I 

WE  HAVE  FOLLOWED  OUR  YOUNG  FOLK  THROUGH 
THE  MORNING  OF  THEIR  LIVES  AND  THE  THROES 
OF  YOUNG  LOVE.  WE  COME  NOW  TO  THE  AFTER 
NOONS  —  AT  PRESENT  THE  EARLY  AFTERNOONS  — 
AND  THE  HENDERSON  GIRL  COMES  BACK  FROM  HER 
WEDDING  TRIP. 

FOR  the  proper  and  orderly  denouement  of  the 
events  which  have  gone  before,  it  has  been  necessary 
to  refer  now  and  then  to  the  old  files  of  our  news 
paper  from  the  time  we  founded  the  Telegraph  up  to 
'83.  But  approaching  now  the  events  in  the  years 
1883  to  1897,  it  is  necessary  to  take  the  battered  old 
volumes  down  from  the  safe,  spread  them  freely  over 
tables,  chairs  and  reporters'  desks,  and  watch  the 
front  pages  and  follow  the  local  columns  day  by  day. 
For  from  the  ready-reference  of  those  files  we  have 
refreshed  in  our  memories  many  incidents  that 
throw  sidelights  on  the  people  of  our  story,  help  to 
straighten  our  chronology  and  bind  in  neatly  to  form 
a  symmetrical,  clean-cut  whole,  many  of  the  tiny 
frayed  ends  and  ravelings  of  our  narrative. 

For  instance,  here  comes  first  a  half-column  account 
of  the  Purse- Wood  nuptials.  It  says  that  they  were 
"quietly  married"  at  the  Methodist  parsonage  on 
the  preceding  evening  on  account  of  "the  recent 
death  of  the  bride's  mother."  There  is  a  brief  sketch 
of  each  person's  life  in  which  the  phrases  "accepted  a 


154  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

position"  when  the  meaning  is  that  they  "got  a 
job",  and  "in  order  to  advance  their  prospects" 
when  the  inference  is  that  it  was  the  only  thing  left 
for  them  to  do  under  the  circumstances,  occur  fre 
quently  in  the  text.  Thus  do  these  calloused,  heart 
less,  obstreperous  country  newspapermen  prostitute 
their  talents  ignominously  to  soften  the  tragedies  of 
day-to-day  living  for  plain  people  and  help  them  to 
put  the  best  face  upon  shame  and  necessity  and 
misfortune  in  the  eyes  of  the  multitude. 

Witness  how  the  account  reads  on :  That  owwg 
to  recent  untoward  events  bride  and  groom  will  "post 
pone  their  honeymoon  until  a  later  date"  but  that 
in  honor  of  the  nuptials  a  pretty  wedding  supper  was 
served  at  the  home  of  the  young  couple's  employer 
attended  by  a  "few  intimate  friends."  And  the 
menu  is  given  —  in  all  of  which  may  be  detected  the 
hand  of  Mrs.  Hod  and  the  heart  of  her  husband. 

Turn  over  two  issues  and  here  on  the  fifth  page, 
third  column,  fourth  item  down  is  something  else : 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  John  Purse,  who  were  recently 
married  at  the  Methodist  parsonage,  have  furnished 
a  home  in  the  house  owned  by  William  Stevens 
on  Pleasant  Street  and  will  entertain  their  many 
friends  after  November  1st. 

What  did  it  matter  that  the  "furnishing  of  a  home" 
was  merely  the  fitting  up  of  three  rooms  in  one  of 
Bill  Stevens'  upper  tenements  next  to  the  wood  yard 
on  Pleasant  Street,  —  that  the  "furnishings"  were 
mostly  indescribably  sacred  little  odds  and  ends 
which  the  girl  had  saved  from  the  auction  or  bid 
in  with  her  slender  purse  or  that  Jack  had  bought  on 
instalments  from  Blake  Whipple's  "Household 
Emporium  &  Furniture  Bazaar  "  ?  The  hands  of  a 


155 

woman  with  a  song  in  her  heart  have  been  accom 
plishing  miracles  in  making  a  human  habitation 
out  of  nothing  since  the  days  when  the  cave  man 
returned  at  nightfall  and  found  a  curtain  of  skins 
hung  before  his  door  in  the  first  faint  privacies  of  the 
race. 

Mary's  hands  were  busy  and  her  heart  was  singing. 
When  November  first  brought  the  curious  friends,  not 
one  of  them  conceived  in  his  most  irrational  moment 
that  the  hideously  ugly  box  house  with  its  flat  tin 
roof  and  awful  jig-saw  trimmings  could  have  sheltered 
the  homely  comfort  which  they  found.  It  was  a  sad 
day  when  Bill  sold  his  three  tenements  as  a  site  for  a 
business  block  and  one  by  one  Mary  had  to  take 
down  the  pictures  and  knickknacks  and  fold  up  the 
carpets.  On  all  the  long  life  journey  from  a  fur 
nished  room  to  a  mansion,  there  is  never  again  a  home 
just  like  the  first. 

Lest  we  be  accused  of  morbidness,  let  us  turn  a  few 
more  pages  of  the  files.  What  is  this  under  a  "two 
head"  down  in  the  lower  left-hand  corner  of  this 
front  page? 

The  village  was  pleasantly  surprised  last  evening 
when  the  six  o'clock  train  up  the  valley  brought  back 
to  Paris  two  young  people  very  well  known  in  the 
community,  who  during  a  week's  absence  have  joined 
their  lives  and  fortunes  :  Herbert  R.  Truman,  son  of 
our  well-known  manufacturer  Silas  Truman,  and 
Miss  Mabel  Henderson,  daughter  of  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Harvey  Henderson  of  East  Main  Street,  who  is  being 
introduced  about  town  to-day  as  Mrs.  Herbert 
Truman. 

The  couple  had  been  entirely  successful  in  keeping 
their  courtship  secret  and  last  Friday  night  they 


156  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

slipped  away  quietly  down  to  Brattleboro  and  were 
married.  They  have  since  been  spending  a  week's 
honeymoon  in  Boston  and  Providence. 

Mr.  Truman  is  in  business  with  his  father  in  the 
manufacture  of  the  celebrated  Short-Cramp  Farm 
Wagon  and  Mrs.  Truman  for  the  past  four  years  has 
been  employed  as  compositor  in  the  Telegraph  office. 
It  is  a  queer  coincidence  that  all  unwittingly  the 
couple  were  married  at  about  the  same  hour  as  two 
other  employes  of  the  local  newspaper  plant,  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  John  Purse.  Cupid  appears  to  have  acquired 
an  extraordinary  fancy  for  the  office  where  the 
Telegraph  is  published. 

For  the  present  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Truman  have  taken 
a  suite  at  the  Whitney  House.  It  is  rumored  that 
the  bridegroom  is  negotiating  for  the  purchase  of  the 
Holland  property  on  Maple  Street  which  he  will 
have  rebuilt  and  furnished  for  a  home.  The  best 
wishes  of  their  many  friends  go  with  them  for  a  long 
and  happily  married  life. 

"Huh!"  exclaimed  that  lovable  old  philosopher, 
Uncle  Joe  Fodder,  as  he  sat  in  our  office  whence  he 
came  to  read  the  down-state  exchanges,  "  — happily 
married  life !  It's  got  to  go  that  way  in  print,  I 
suppose.  But  when  one  party  marries  on  heartache 
and  t'other  marries  on  a  flyin'  grab  for  purple  and 
fine  linen,  there's  goin'  to  be  just  about  as  much  hap 
piness  as  between  Cain  and  the  girl  from  Nod  when 
she  found  out  his  record  and  called  on  the  four  winds 
o'  heaven  to  witness  that  she  was  a  buncoed  woman. 
When  Mibb  finds  out  Herb's  always  loved  some  one 
else  and  when  Herb  finds  out  that  most  of  his  wad  is 
findin'  its  way  into  the  hands  o'  his  wife's  mother,  be 
lieve  me  there's  goin'  to  be  doin's.  It'll  be  a  case  of 


THE   GREATER  GLORY  157 

a  snippy,  fussy  little  female  poodle  mated  up  to  a 
brokenhearted  mastiff." 

"Maybe  there's  something  to  it,"  Sam  admitted. 

"You're  gol-durned  right  there's  somethin'  to  it," 
vouched  Uncle  Joe.  "Give  'em  two  months  and 
watch  the  ruckus.  Solomon,  father  of  all  Masons 
because  he  had  so  many  wives,  had  an  easier  time 
with  his  domestic  circle  than  Herb's  goin'  to  have 
with  just  two." 

"Two?" 

"Mibb  —  and  Mrs.  Harvey  Henderson." 

"But  will  Herb's  folks  stand  for  anything  from 
Mrs.  Harvey  Henderson  ?" 

"No.  That's  why  there's  goin'  to  be  fireworks 
for  Herb.  He  ain't  married  Mibb  alone,  —  which 
would  be  bad  enough.  He's  went  and  spliced  up 
with  her  family." 

Mary  had  not  given  up  her  job  following  her 
marriage.  She  and  Jack  needed  her  wages  worse 
than  ever.  So  she  was  in  the  back  room  alone, 
starting  in  early  that  noon  because  we  were  short- 
handed,  when  Mibb  came  in. 

Neither  the  Queen  of  Sheba  nor  Dolly  Varden  had 
anything  on  Mibb  on  her  return  from  her  wedding 
journey.  She  wore  an  elaborate  creation  of  broad 
cloth  and  satin,  mauve  and  mustard.  The  skirt 
was  flounced  and  draped  and  multiple-pleated  after 
the  fashion  of  the  period,  the  bustle  and  the  basque 
waist  set  off  a  figure  which  Skinny  Napoleon  declared 
was  a  cross  between  the  Venus  de  Milo  and  a  two- 
day  drunk,  and  on  her  head  she  wore  one  of  those 
ridiculously  small  hats  seen  now  only  in  the  wood 
cuts  of  old  ante-bellum  magazines. 

"Hello,  little  Eight-Point!"  she  called  out. 
"How's  the  local  column?" 


158  THE   GREATER  GLORY 

Mary  rested  her  stick  on  the  edge  of  her  case  and 
stared  at  the  butterfly  that  had  emerged  from  its 
black  cambric  chrysalis. 

"Well,"  demanded  Mibb,  "and  how  do  you  like 
the  landscape  gardening?" 

"  You're  —  beautiful ! "  exclaimed  Mary,  her  hun 
gry  eyes  taking  in  every  detail  of  the  citified  attire. 

"I'm  graduated  —  thank  Gawd  !"  returned  Mibb, 
with  a  suggestive  sniff  at  the  lay-out  of  cases.  "I 
thought  I'd  drop  in  because  I  heard  you  and  Jack 
had  also  married.  I  didn't  know,"  insinuated  Mibb 
with  a  poke  of  the  parasol  that  matched  the  suit 
at  an  old  patent-medicine  cut  lying  on  the  floor, 
-  that  Jack  could  afford  it.  But  you're  going  to 
keep  on  working,  of  course.  That  explains  it." 

Mary  picked  up  her  stick  hurriedly.  She  read 
it  over  with  eyes  which  saw  no  type. 

"Yes,"  she  said  after  a  time,  "I'm  going  to  keep 
on  working." 

Mibb  paced  grandly  up  and  down  the  short  type 
alley,  swinging  the  parasol,  affecting  to  be  interested 
in  the  type  cases  as  though  she  had  never  seen  them 
before  and  wondered  how  such  little  slivers  of  metal 
were  managed. 

"Of  course  I  wouldn't  say  anything  for  the  world 
about  another  woman's  husband ;  but  —  weren't  you  a 
bit  hasty,  Mary  ?  You  ought  to  have  waited  until 
you  could  afford  it,  you  know." 

"I  wasn't  —  any  more  hasty  —  than  you  were, 
Mibb."  Mary  examined  very  minutely  the  badly- 
penned  copy  before  her  on  the  cap-case. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  Why,  Herbert  and  I  have 
been  going  together  for  years  —  long  before  you  ever 
arrived  in  Paris !  And  we'd  been  planning  our 
elopement  for  weeks  and  weeks.  It  was  —  grand  ! " 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  159 

Mary  remained  silent.  The  type  began  to  click  in 
her  stick. 

"We've  decided  to  buy  the  Holland  house. 
I  think  I  shall  have  it  made  over,  retaining  its 
colonial  style."  She  continued  to  stroll  restlessly 
about,  examining  things  very  superficially  and  con 
descendingly. 

"I  hope  you  will  be  very  happy,"  said  Mary.  She 
did  not  know  what  else  to  say. 

"Happy?  Huh!  Leave  it  to  me,  Mary  Wood. 
I  always  told  you,  didn't  I,  there  was  nothing  like 
money  to  make  a  marriage  happy.  Herb  says  to 
me  this  morning,  he  says  :  '  I  want  you  should  have 
everything  your  heart  desires,  Mabel ;  you  only  got 
one  life  to  live  and  while  it's  short  it  ought  to  be 
merry.  Don't  let  money  stand  in  your  way  of  mak 
ing  life  worth  living.  Anything  you  see  that  you 
want,  say  the  word  and  I'll  try  to  see  that  you  get  it.* 
That's  the  kind  of  husband  to  have,  Mary  Wood." 

"Yes,"  said  Mary,  "that's  the  kind  of  husband  to 
have." 

Mibb  was  nettled.  Somehow,  beyond  her  first 
show  of  surprise,  Mary  didn't  seem  at  all  impressed 
by  her  "creation"  or  the  costly  little  dewdrop  bon 
net.  Mary's  last  statement  she  fancied  contained  a 
subtle  inference  of  doubt  at  her  veracity.  It  piqued 
Mibb  to  declare : 

"  Only  a  fool  would  marry  a  man  who  didn't  have 
nothing  to  fall  back  on  but  his  wages." 

It  had  the  desired  effect.  Mary  paused  for  a 
moment,  stared  ahead  of  her  absently,  turning  a 
capital  M  over  and  over  in  her  grimy  fingers. 

"I  think,"  she  said  softly,  "that  is  rather  an  un 
kind  statement  to  make." 

"Oh,  I  wasn't  thinking  of  Jack  particularly,  al- 


160  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

though  that  doesn't  exempt  him.  I  was  looking  at 
it  in  the  light  of  my  own  case,"  returned  Mibb 
grandly.  One  of  her  paniers  caught  on  an  unsunken 
lag-screw  head  which  held  a  type  rack  together. 
She  unfastened  herself  and  got  a  smutch  on  her 
puffs.  "My!  —  what  a  dirty  hole!"  she  cried 
fastidiously. 

"I  see  you  and  Herbert  are  staying  at  the  Whitney 
House,"  suggested  Mary,  trying  to  turn  the  conversa 
tion  off  dangerous  ground.  "  I'm  surprised  you  didn't 
return  to  Herbert's  folks  until  your  new  home  is 
ready." 

"Herb's  mother  gets  on  my  nerves,"  snapped  the 
other.  "To  shake  hands  with  her  is  like  wringing 
the  claw  of  a  corpse." 

"And  how  does  your  mother  like  Herbert  ?" 

"She  knows  a  good  thing  when  she  sees  it,"  an 
nounced  Mibb.  Mary  glanced  up  in  surprise  at  the 
tone  and  manner.  But  the  Henderson  girl  was 
reading  some  inconsequential  thing  tacked  up  on 
the  wall.  Mibb  went  on  :  "You  folks  are  boarding, 
I  suppose.  Naturally  it's  the  only  thing  you  could 
do  in  your  straitened  circumstances." 

"We  are  furnishing  a  little  place  on  Pleasant 
Street,"  returned  Mary  as  evenly  as  she  could, 
adding :  "You  must  come  over  and  see  me  when  we 
pronounce  it  finished." 

"I  might  drop  in  for  a  moment."  She  did  not 
return  the  invitation. 

The  boys  and  girls  came  to  work  presently  and 
crowded  around  Mabel  and  congratulated  her,  and 
the  other  two  women  admired  her  finery  and  gazed 
at  her  lost  in  envy  and  admiration.  Mibb  was 
satisfied  now.  She  came  over  to  Mary's  stool  be 
fore  she  left  and  used  Mary's  little  three-corner  piece 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  161 

of  mirror  on  the  window  casing  to  tie  the  bow  of  her 
bonnet  very  precisely. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "good-by.  I'm  sorry  for  you, 
having  to  stay  indoors  this  beautiful  autumn  day. 
I've  got  to  go  try  on  a  dress  at  Mrs.  Seaver's  and 
then  I  think  I  shall  take  a  drive  with  the  little  black 
mare  over  to  the  dance  at  Warfields  this  evening." 

"Good-by,"  said  Mary. 

The  Henderson  girl  swept  out  like  the  grand  lady 
she  was,  —  from  the  standpoint  of  clothes.  It  was 
the  undignified  parade  of  the  snobbery  of  a  cheap, 
ill-bred  woman.  But  to  Mary  it  hurt.  When 
Mibb  had  gone,  she  sat  looking  out  the  side  window 
for  several  minutes.  The  fragrant  autumn  air,  in 
sharp  contrast  to  the  pungent  odor  of  printing  ink 
inside  the  shop,  wafted  in  on  the  pleasant  afternoon 
sunshine  and  called  to  her.  She  would  like  to  be 
out  in  the  beauty  this  golden  afternoon.  She 
would  like  to  be  going  over  to  Mrs.  Seaver's  to  have  a 
fine  dress  fitted.  She  would  enjoy  taking  Monday- 
Washing  all  alone  by  herself  and  driving  over  the 
yellow  and  scarlet  hills  to  Warfields. 

But  she  put  the  tempter  righteously  out  of  her 
thoughts. 

"Some  day  — I  will!"  she  told  herself.  "My 
time  hasn't  come  —  yet ! " 

She  came  face  to  face  with  Herbert  that  evening 
as  she  emerged  from  the  Red  Front  grocery  with  her 
arms  laden  with  bundles.  There  was  a  confused, 
averted-faced  greeting.  Then  to  her  dismay  —  and 
bit  of  panic  —  Herb  fell  into  step  beside  her  and 
walked  to  the  corner  of  Pleasant  and  Pine  streets. 

After  three  or  four  blocks  of  silence,  she  said : 

"Well,  Herbert  —  how  did  it  happen?" 

He  read  her  thoughts  perfectly,  and  her  meaning. 


162  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

"I  met  Sam  Hod  in  Fred  Barrett's  jewelry  store, 
that  afternoon,"  confessed  the  boy.  "He  was 
telling  Fred  about  Jack  —  buying  you  some  kind 
of  wedding  present.  He  said  you  and  Jack  were  to 
be  married  that  night  and  his  wife  was  already 
fixing  up  the  wedding  supper." 

"Well?" 

"I  didn't  know  what  else  to  do  —  I  was  so  lonely 
and  disappointed  and  miserable.  I  went  and  got 
Monday- Washing  and  hitched  her  up  and  went 
driving  all  by  myself.  Suddenly  out  beyond  the 
Greene  River  bridge  it  all  come  to  me  like  a  vision 
out  o'  the  dyin'  afternoon's  twilight.  You  was 
bein'  married — for  life!  After  to-night  there  was 
no  gettin'  you;  it  wouldn't  even  be  proper  to  see 
you  alone  after  this,  not  even  for  a  talk.  And  just 
in  that  minute  I  wanted  a  woman  to  talk  to  and  give 
me  some  —  some  —  some  sympathy  worse  than 
I'd  ever  wanted  one  in  my  life.  Sounds  soft  and 
sickenin',  don't  it?  But  I  just  did.  And  the 
hopelessness  of  it  all,  and  what  a  mess  I'd  made 
o'  things  and  the  panic  that  maybe  I  was  too  big  and 
fat  and  homely  —  too  much  of  a  slob  —  for  any 
woman  ever  to  want  me  exceptin'  the  wrong  kind, 
got  to  my  head,  and  drivin'  down  the  next  street  I 
see  Mibb." 

"Yes,  Herbert." 

"I'm  tellin'  you  as  a  brother.  I  see  her  and  went 
sort  o'  crazy,  I  guess.  All  I  knew,  we  was  rattling 
down  the  street  to  the  station  and  the  down  train 
was  waitin'  with  steam  up.  'Oh,  what  a  lark,' 
says  she  after  a  time.  I  give  Jim  Barnes,  the  station 
agent,  two  dollars  to  take  Monday- Washing  back 
home  and  stable  her  and  tie  up  Card,  and  Mibb  and 
I  got  on  the  last  car  without  even  buyin'  a  ticket." 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  163 

The  boy  moved  his  head.  The  gaslamp  from  the 
corner  shone  on  his  features.  He  was  weeping 
silently,  without  sobs,  as  men  weep.  Never  had 
Mary  wanted  to  comfort  him  as  a  sister  might  com 
fort  a  brother,  as  she  did  in  that  moment.  She 
knew  the  influence  she  exercised  over  him  to  make 
him  confess  his  troubles.  She  knew  that  to  confess 
his  troubles  might  make  him  feel  better.  Very 
sympathetically  she  said : 

"Yes,  Herbert.     I  understand.     And  then  what?'* 

"All  the  way  down  Mibb  was  keyed  up  and  kept 
sayin'  over  and  over  again  what  a  lark  it  was  and 
what  a  sensation  they'd  be  at  home  when  the  news 
come  back.  She  let  me  caress  her  a  bit,  that  was 
some  satisfaction.  Only  I  wanted  more'n  that.  I 
felt  as  if  I  wanted  to  have  the  kind  o'  mother  you 
read  about  in  story  books  come  along  and  pick  me 
up  and  rock  me  to  sleep.  I  wanted  a  lullaby  to 
make  me  forget  I'd  lost  you,  Mary." 

"And  you  were  married?" 

"Yes,  we  was  married.  And  we  went  on  down  to 
Boston  and  Mibb  splurged." 

This  last  seemed  sufficient  in  itself  as  an  explana 
tion  of  what  Mibb  alone  had  the  courage  to  put  into 
words : 

"And  you're  not  happy  with  her,  are  you,  Her 
bert?" 

"I  could  be  happy  —  if  she'd  let  me.  I  could  take  a 
grip  on  myself  and  call  it  a  sportin'  proposition  and 
that  I  was  married  and  would  make  the  best  of  it  — 
and  the  most.  In  time  I  could  love  her  a  lot.  But 
—  she  ain't  domestic.  That's  a  good  word,  ain't 
it?" 

"Yes,  Herbert,"  said  Mary  sadly.  "That's  a 
very  good  word." 


164  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

"Oh  what  a  mess  I've  made  o'  things  !" 

"Perhaps  not,  Herbert.  You  do  your  part  nobly. 
Keep  right  on  doing  your  part.  Be  a  — a  —  good 
sport,  as  you  say.  Time  works  many  changes. 
We  never  know  what  a  day  will  bring  forth." 

"  It's  the  money  ! "  declared  the  boy.  "  If  I  hadn't 
it  I'd  be  working  like  Jack  —  for  wages  —  and 
married  to  some  girl  who  cared  about  me  for  myself 
and  not  because  it  give  her  a  'lark'  or  allowed  her  to 
splurge.  Gawd,  how  I  wish  I  was  poor !  It's 
just  simply  hell !" 

"Let's  see  how  it  will  work  out,  Herbert.  Please 
do!" 

Ten  minutes  afterward,  she  watched  him  disappear 
through  the  falling  leaves,  with  a  heart  full  of  sad 
ness,  —  and  happiness.  There  was  sadness  there 
for  Herbert;  there  was  happiness  there  that  she 
had  deliberately  put  out  of  her  mind  that  afternoon 
the  thoughts  which  had  tried  to  force  their  way  in 
after  Mibb  had  left  her. 


CHAPTER  H 

So  NOW  WE  GET  DOWN  TO  THE  BUSINESS  OF 
LIVING  AND  ENTER  A  ROOM  WHERE  FOOTFALLS 
ARE  HUSHED  TO  WITNESS  THE  ALMIGHTY  SEND 
ING  A  MIRACLE. 

BACK  to  the  Files  again.  Under  date  of  December 
the  10th.  What  is  this  that  we  find  ? 

A  pleasant  social  time  was  held  last  evening  on 
Pleasant  Street  when  about  fifteen  friends  and  neigh 
bors  gathered  to  give  a  house-warming  to  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  John  Purse.  The  evening  was  spent  with 
games  and  music,  and  refreshments  were  served. 
The  guests  presented  the  young  couple  with  a  valu 
able  parlor  clock  and  the  members  of  the  office 
force  as  a  body  contributed  toward  a  bronze  horse 
man  to  surmount  its  top. 

Still  further  on,  under  date  of  February  the  twenty- 
fifth  and  prominently  displayed  on  the  front  page 
where  it  occupied  two  columns,  an  obituary  which 
opened  thus : 

The  community  suffered  a  great  shock  last  even 
ing  when  Silas  M.  Truman,  one  of  the  town's  most 
prominent  business  men  and  leading  citizens,  passed 
away  in  his  magnificent  Main  Street  home  of  a 
complication  of  diseases.  He  took  to  his  bed  over 
a  fortnight  ago,  leaving  his  affairs  in  the  hands  of 
his  son.  He  grew  rapidly  worse  and  the  end  came 
at  twenty  minutes  to  seven  last  night.  He  was 
67  years  old. 


166  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

Follows  an  elaborate  obituary.  The  grim  com 
ment  about  the  town  next  day  revealed  the  universal 
sentiment  that  Sam  Hod  had  overdone  it  a  bit. 
There  are  few  real  tears  at  the  death  of  a  highly 
successful  plate-passer  and  mortgage  foreclose!-. 

But  greater  even  than  the  death  of  Herbert's 
father  and  his  son's  inheritance  of  the  house,  the 
wagon  works  and  the  family  money  —  at  least  to 
the  importance  of  the  denouement  of  this  narra 
tive  —  is  one  little  four-line  item  found  in  an  August 
issue  after  several  months  of  newspaper  silence 
regarding  the  Telegraph  folk. 

The  Purse  tenement  had  been  a  cozy  little  place 
that  first  winter.  Jack  and  Mary  had  both  joined 
the  Calvary  Methodist  Church  and  being  a  willing, 
accommodating  little  body,  the  girl  was  in  demand  at 
all  sorts  of  social  functions  where  there  were  rooms 
to  be  trimmed  or  children  to  be  drilled  or  dishes  to 
be  washed,  —  which  was  not  without  its  compensa 
tion  in  the  matter  of  a  permanent  place  in  the  village 
social  circles  and  among  the  younger  married  people. 
There  were  many  little  "affairs"  in  the  upper  Purse 
tenement,  many  surprise  parties,  many  attendances 
on  singing  schools  where  the  girl's  clear  soprano  and 
Jack's  fine  tenor  increased  their  popularity. 

But  toward  the  end  of  the  spring,  Mary  left  us. 
One  April  morning  she  failed  to  report  for  work. 
Jack  carried  home  her  black  kimono  apron,  the  extra 
pair  of  emergency  rubbers  and  umbrella  that  had 
stood  for  so  long  at  her  case  and  the  corner  of  the 
wall. 

She  gradually  dropped  out  of  church  society; 
she  attended  but  one  lawn  party.  Jack  went  around 
with  a  worried  look  and  sought  every  opportunity 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  167 

of  running  up  over-time  for  a  reason  other  than 
the  creditor's  moral  claims  upon  his  slender  pay 
envelope. 

July  fourth  came  with  its  unholy  racket  in  the 
gray  of  the  morning  and  its  parade  at  ten  o'clock, 
ending  with  fireworks  in  the  evening  which  Mary 
watched  from  the  little  front  porch  over  the  front 
steps.  Lazy  August  was  upon  us.  And  one  day  the 
small  Ashley  boy,  who  lived  downstairs  under  the 
Purses,  padded  into  the  back  room  in  his  bare  feet, 
the  pucker-strings  of  his  blouse  hanging  down  and 
his  nose  very  damp.  He  found  Jack  making  up  the 
last  galleys  into  the  front  page. 

"Hey,  Mister  Purse,"  he  announced  excitedly 
so  that  all  the  office  heard,  "  —  you  better  getcher 
hat  and  go  home  quick.  Somebody's  brought  you 
a  baby!" 

Jack  went  home  with  a  strange  feeling  in  his 
heart.  He  hardly  had  the  strength  to  climb  the 
outside  back  stairs.  He  went  in  through  the 
kitchen.  Mrs.  Ashley  was  there,  and  Mrs.  Pother- 
ton  from  the  next  house  and  —  Doctor  Johnson. 

"Your  wife,  son,"  announced  Johnson,  rolling 
down  his  sleeves  as  he  stepped  into  the  homely 
little  sitting  room  from  the  bedchamber  on  the  east. 
" —  has  just  given  birth  to  a  whale  of  a  baby  son  !" 
He  stepped  before  the  bewildered  young  husband. 
"You  can't  go  in  there,"  the  doctor  declared, 
"not  until  you  come  across  with  cigars !  Good 
ones  !  Two  bits  apiece  !" 

Nevertheless,  Jack  went  in. 

A  great  American  author  has  since  declared  that 
there  are  three  earthly  experiences  without  which  no 


168  THE   GREATER  GLORY 

life  is  complete :  Love,  War,  Poverty.  There  is  a 
fourth.  It  is  the  birth  of  a  child. 

Of  all  events  in  the  annals  of  humankind  this  is 
the  greatest  —  life's  essence  and  foundation. 

Noble  sacrifice,  fearless  courage,  indescribable 
agony,  the  triumph  of  the  love  beside  which  all 
other  loves  are  weak  and  whimsical  fantasies  — • 
one  little  knows  what  deep  and  sacred  depths  can 
be  plumbed  in  the  fathoms  of  human  character 
until  he  has  beheld  this  greatest  of  all  miracles,  until 
he  has  witnessed  the  going-down  of  a  woman  into 
and  beyond  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow  of  Happiness 
to  find  the  Singing  Souls  of  the  unborn  children, 
entice  a  little  soul  away  by  the  tenderness  of  her 
eyes  and  the  compassion  of  her  arms  —  and  bear 
it  up  the  steeps  and  out  into  the  world  of  earthly 
sunlight  through  the  pink  and  golden  portals  of 
birth. 

A  man  marries  a  woman.  The  ceremony  lies  in 
the  past.  There  comes  the  return  from  the  honey 
moon.  The  event  is  but  a  few  paragraphs  on  an 
out-of-date  newspaper  page  and  to  all  but  their 
relatives  and  a  few  intimate  friends  the  new  home 
stirs  not  a  ripple  in  the  social  sea  of  great  humanity. 
And  then  —  a  baby  comes  ! 

A  baby  comes ! 

In  some  side  room  where  curtains  are  drawn, 
footfalls  softened  and  sounds  are  hushed,  a  diminu 
tive  gasping  human  creature  convulses  spasmodically 
on  a  nurse's  arm.  The  first  breaths  of  earthly  air 
are  burning  like  fire  in  its  tiny  lungs.  Its  black  face 
is  slowly  turning  pink.  Its  features  are  becoming 
understandable.  Its  fists  are  opening  and  closing, 
its  vocal  chords  are  strengthening,  its  breathing 
regular.  Its  head  is  misshapen,  its  eyes  twisted,  its 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  169 

legs  crooked ;  its  general  anatomical  design  sends  a 
panic  through  the  household,  —  through  all  but  a 
relieved  physician,  a  smiling  nurse,  a  mother  who 
dimly  knows  that  all  is  well. 

This  is  a  new  human  life  begun.  This  is  the  com 
mencement  of  a  soul. 

Gases  may  swirl  out  in  the  seething  immensities 
of  space,  cool,  form  a  planet,  —  and  to-morrow  that 
planet  be  rolling  cold  and  dead  in  the  infinite  zeros 
of  ether.  Continents  may  be  discovered  and  civili 
zations  established,  —  but  the  cycles  of  eternal 
time  speed  onward  and  seas  blot  out  the  one  and 
evolution  ride  down  the  other.  Empires  may  rise 
and  states  may  flourish,  —  but  peoples  rise  against 
peoples,  they  go  down  in  the  dust,  to-morrow  the 
sands  of  the  eternal  deserts  lie  heavily  upon  them. 
Cities  may  become  great,  ships  may  plow  the  oceans, 
markets  may  teem  with  trade  and  statesmen  rise  to 
glory;  fortunes  may  be  made  or  lost  and  men  may 
lose  their  souls  for  ambition  or  the  love  of  woman. 
But  what  indeed  of  all  these  things  unless  ever  down 
the  ages  comes  the  inexhaustible  Niagara  of  new 
babies  ?  How  pale  and  insignificant  do  all  these 
things  which  men  term  great  sink  down  beside  the 
onward  march  of  hoards  of  children,  watching  as 
they  come  for  mothers'  faces. 

A  baby  comes,  indeed  ! 

There  will  be  days  of  play  and  nights  of  fever 
ahead,  months  of  helplessness,  a  few  brief  years 
of  banging  on  the  table  with  a  spoon  and  ruling 
a  household's  heart.  There  will  be  the  time  of 
awkwardness,  —  saucer  eyes,  big  knees,  bursting 
buttons  and  rending  seams.  There  will  be  times  of 
calf-love  and  seasons  of  heartburn.  There  will  be 
years  of  conceit  unbearable ;  periods,  too,  of  cruel 


170  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

chastisement.  Then  it  will  know  real  love  and  the 
beginning  of  the  Golgotha  of  seeing  visions  and 
dreaming  dreams.  Sorrow  and  tragedy  and  dis 
appointment  will  be  its  portion.  And  then,  far,  far 
ahead  —  somewhere  down  the  dim  corridors  of  saner, 
cooler,  finer  years  —  may  come  to  a  brief  decade  of 
real  usefulness,  to  itself  and  to  the  race. 

And  as  poet  has  sung  and  author  has  written  from 
the  days  when  Pandora's  box  was  opened  and  all 
the  troubles  of  the  world  were  loosened  —  so  long 
that  only  the  fool  would  claim  the  thought  for  his 
own  —  some  one  must  be  tender,  faithful,  hopeful, 
ever-patient,  never  discouraged,  always  confident 
through  all  those  years  and  times,  —  the  Some 
One  who  lies  upon  the  bed  —  as  John  Purse  looked 
that  day  on  the  wife  of  his  love  lying  upon  the  bed  - 
her  body  wet  with  agony,  her  eyes  hollow,  her  cheeks 
haggard,  her  smile  a  mask  to  hide  the  pain,  —  the 
Some  One  who  reaches  for  the  little  reddened  crea 
ture,  lays  it  upon  her  heart  and  soothes  its  hunger 
with  her  breast. 

This  is  the  grandeur  and  infinity  of  God  focused 
in  the  instincts  of  a  woman.  This  is  our  genesis 
and  our  decalog.  This  is  our  Vision  of  the  Most 
High,  life's  fourth  experience  —  which  should  come 
first! 

It  was  evening.  Jack  was  alone  in  the  room  with 
his  wife  and  the  newly  arrived  baby.  The  two 
women  had  gone  home.  Doctor  Johnson  had 
departed,  promising  to  get  a  nurse  over  before  mid 
night.  The  little  son  lay  sleeping  on  his  mother's 
arm,  lost  in  flannel. 

"Jack!" 

"Yes,  dear." 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  171 

"I  hope  he'll  be  a  great  good  man,  —  a  minister  !" 

"A  man !  You're  figuring  pretty  far  ahead, 
Mary.  Let's  raise  him  to  be  a  boy  first.  I'll  be 
thankful  when  he  can  talk  ! " 

The  man  walked  to  the  window.  Thrusting  his 
hands  in  his  pockets  he  said  : 

"I  wonder  why  it  is  that  every  woman  wants  her 
boy  to  be  a  preacher  ?  " 

He  stood  looking  out  into  the  summer  night  and 
the  street  lamps  beginning  to  sprinkle  the  dusk. 
And  after  a  time  she  replied  : 

"I  guess  it  must  be  because  preachers  are  supposed 
to  represent  all  that's  finest  and  best  in  manhood." 
But  in  her  heart  she  knew  it  was  more  than  that. 
Perhaps  one  other  Mary  could  have  framed  the  idea 
in  words  twenty  centuries  ago. 

"I'll  be  thankful  if  he  grows  up  to  be  anything,  — 
so  long  as  it  isn't  a  newspaperman  ! " 

Sam  came  over  around  eight  o'clock,  bringing  the 
paper.  When  he  had  seen  the  new  baby,  spoken 
gently  to  the  inert  woman,  and  gone,  Jack  came  into 
the  bedroom  with  the  newspaper  in  one  hand  and  a 
dimmed  light  in  the  other.  He  gave  Mary  the 
night's  Telegraph  properly  folded  to  the  designated 
place.  Then  he  held  the  lamp,  turning  it  up  momen 
tarily  to  give  her  the  illumination  to  read  : 

LAST  MINUTE  NEWS  ! 

Born  —  To  Mr.  and  Mrs.  John  Purse  of  Pleasant 
Street,  this  afternoon,  a  son,  weight  eight  and  three- 
quarter  pounds.  Congratulations ! 


CHAPTER  in 

MIBB  TRUMAN  PAYS  MARY  A  VISIT  IN  HER  TENE 
MENT  HOME  —  THE  FIRST  OF  THREE  VISITS 
THAT  SHE  EVER  PAYS  IN  HER  "CAREER",  AT 
WHICH  "A  PLEASANT  TIME  is  NOT  HAD  BY  ALL." 

EVEN  the  most  realistic  story  of  married  life 
drags  after  a  time  if  the  attempt  is  made  to  chronicle 
the  thousand  and  one  situations  and  struggles  and 
sacrifices  and  anticipations  and  heart-hopes  of  the 
days  and  the  months  and  the  years.  And  as  the 
greatest  part  of  Mary  Purse's  story  is  the  last  part, 
we  can  turn  the  pages  of  the  files  here  in  great 
handf uls  down  through  the  Eighties  — >  after  a  passing 
reference  to  one  or  two  situations  that  stand  out  in 
high  light  after  the  new  baby  came. 

We  didn't  see  much  of  Mary  after  the  first 
youngster  arrived.  Now  and  then  one  of  us  in  the 
office  would  meet  her  pushing  a  rather  noisy  baby 
carriage  with  wooden  wheels  and  steel  tires  along 
the  village  streets  of  a  pleasant  afternoon,  perhaps 
idling  along  the  Main  Street  windows  and  pausing 
to  gaze  wistfully  into  them,  working  the  carriage 
forward  and  backward  to  keep  Thomas  Joshua 
Purse  from  riling  up  the  entire  business  section. 
We  took  note  of  the  very  plain  clothes  and  how  the 
sleeves  of  her  jacket  were  always  just  out  of  fashion. 
Her  hat  would  be  pinned  too  far  back  on  her  head. 
Her  rubbers  would  be  sewed  neatly  enough  with  a 
black  thread  where  the  shoes  had  broken  through. 


THE   GREATER  GLORY  173 

But  her  face,  despite  the  fine  lines  of  care  and 
labor  that  were  beginning  to  come  and  which  were 
indeed  changing  her  from  a  girl  into  a  woman,  was 
still  pretty.  And  when  any  one,  even  strangers, 
stopped,  as  fussy  old  ladies  sometimes  will,  or  tooth 
less  gentlemen  carrying  canes,  to  comment  on  the 
size  and  health  of  the  lusty  youngster  in  the  carriage, 
there  was  a  pathetic  pride  which  seemed  to  defy 
the  town  and  the  world. 

Then  one  day  Mibb  stood  on  the  front  porch 
when  Mary  went  down  to  answer  the  bell.  She 
was  overfed,  over-dressed,  over-masseured. 

"Well,"  said  she,  the  condescension  in  her  voice 
not  to  be  mistaken,  "I've  come  to  see  your  baby  !" 

Mary  was  dressed  in  a  cheap  wrapper,  her  breast 
was  decorated  with  safety  pins,  the  apron  gathered 
in  a  quick  roll  at  her  waist.  It  was  blotched  where 
Thomas  Joshua  Purse  had  five  minutes  before  upset 
a  dish  of  syrup  upon  her  and  she  had  no  other  to 
wear  until  morning.  She  remembered  that  the 
parlor  curtains  were  in  the  wash  and  the  front 
room  looked  barren  as  a  small  barn  without  them; 
that  the  sitting  room  was  strewn  with  toys,  carelessly 
wrecked  trains  of  cast-iron  cars  and  picture  blocks 
which  were  ideal  when  one  had  an  ankle  he  wished 
to  turn  and  make  useless  for  a  week.  Half  her 
week's  dry-wash  was  strewn  about  the  same  room 
where  she  had  been  sprinkling  when  the  bell  rang. 
Yet  she  could  not  refuse  Mibb  entrance.  Biting  her 
lip,  Mary  tried  to  smile  and  invited  the  other  upstairs. 

"I  suppose  I  ought  to  have  called  on  you  before," 
declared  Mibb,  "but  I've  been  so  busy  getting  the 
Holland  house  properly  furnished,  with  Mama  having 
so  many  contrary  ideas  which  she  simply  must 
have  carried  out,  and  there's  been  so  much  to  see  to 


174  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

since  Herbert's  father  passed  away "  —  (and  Mibb 
sighed  wonderfully  well)  —  "that  I  haven't  had  the 
chance  to  think  about  anybody.  My !  —  what  a 
little  house  !  And  do  you  live  in  these  three  rooms  ?  " 

"Yes,"  replied  Mary  quietly,  "we  live  here,  the 
three  of  us  —  a  room  apiece  !"  she  laughed  —  "and 
find  ourselves  quite  comfortable." 

"Well,  I  declare.  I  couldn't  stand  it.  I  must 
have  space.  Only  yesterday  I  was  telling  Herbert 
that  we  must  tear  out  the  wall  on  the  north  room  of 
the  library  before  the  contractors  called  the  re 
building  finished  and  make  that  room  larger.  I 
can't  bear  to  be  cramped.  Large  rooms  and  plenty 
of  them  is  my  motto.  And  what's  this  ?  " 

"This,"  replied  Mary,  wheeling  the  carriage  with 
the  coarse  wooden  wheels  over,  "is  Tommy  Joshua 
Purse,  age  eight  months  and  fifteen  days." 

"My  stars  !     What's  the  matter  with  him  ? " 

With  a  startled  turn  Mary  bent  over  the  carriage. 
She  inventoried  the  contents  with  puzzled  anxiety. 

"Why,  nothing,"  she  declared. 

"  But  he's  so  small  and  so  red.  Goodness  gracious  ! 
He  looks  like  a  worm ! " 

"He  will  recover,  I  dare  say,  by  the  time  he  dons 
long  trousers." 

"Mercy !  I  hope  so.  It  would  be  awful  to  have 
a  son  in  long  trousers  looking  like  a  worm.  To  what 
college  are  you  planning  to  send  him  ? " 

Mibb  detected  irony  and  subtle  sarcasm  in  Mary's 
reply.  Her  question  was  a  sally  in  kind.  But  there 
was  nothing  but  deadly  seriousness  in  the  mother's 
reply  as  she  said:  "We  were  thinking  of  Dart 
mouth;  my  own  father  graduated  from  there,  you 
know." 

"No;    I  didn't  know  your  father  was  a  college 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  175 

man,"  said  Mibb  blankly.  "I  always  thought  of 
Silent  Wheeler  as  your  father.  It's  queer  your 
mother  chose  to  marry  him  after  first  marrying  a 
Dartmouth  man." 

"She  was  left  with  a  little  child,  without  insurance, 
and  knowing  no  business  with  which  to  support 
herself.  All  she  could  do  was  keep  house.  There 
was  no  alternative.  She  accepted  Mr.  Wheeler, 
thinking  to  give  me  a  home.  Poor  mother.  I 
wish  —  she  could  see  my  baby  ! " 

This  last  was  somehow  the  sudden  wistful  heart- 
cry  of  a  little  girl. 

Mibb  was  uncomfortable.  She  leaned  over  the 
carriage  and  poked  Thomas  Joshua  a  couple  of  times 
with  a  stiff  forefinger,  —  as  old  ladies  sometimes 
poke  at  prospective  pot-roasts  at  the  butcher's. 

"Please  —  don't!"  cried  Mary  hurriedly. 
"You'll  awake  him  and  I've  just  rocked  him  to 
sleep."  But  Thomas  Joshua  stirred  and  stretched 
and  opened  his  eyes  and  his  mouth,  and  great  and 
terrible  was  his  sudden  lamentation.  Mary  lifted 
him  in  her  arms. 

"He  must  be  an  awful  aggravation  at  times — • 
bawling  like  that." 

Mary  smiled  sadly.  She  laid  her  lips  for  a  moment 
on  the  downy  little  head  where  an  artery  was  throb 
bing. 

"Aggravation?  Poor  Mabel,  what  a  lonesome 
unhappy  time  you  must  be  having !" 

"Lonesome  !  Unhappy  !  Just  because  I  haven't 
got  a  —  a  —  a  —  worm  ?  "  Mibb  laughed.  "  I 
should  say  not.  Every  woman  has  got  a  right  to 
happiness  —  in  her  own  way." 

"Yes,"  agreed  Mary,  "every  woman  has  a  right  to 
happiness  in  her  own  way."  She  looked  at  the  other 


176  THE   GREATER  GLORY 

in  her  exquisite  black  silk  with  the  cut-steel  buttons 
and  the  paniers  and  the  puffs  and  the  overskirts 
and  the  rare  ruching  at  the  throat  and  the  gaudy 
jewelry  on  her  characterless  fingers.  "Some  day, 
Mibb,"  she  said,  "you  will  be  sorry." 

"Sorry  for  what?" 

"Sorry  for  what  you  told  Herbert  on  this  same 
subject  last  Sunday  afternoon. " 

"What  do  you  know  about  that?" 

"Herbert  came  over  here  Sunday  evening  —  to 
see  Jack  and  I  and  Thomas  Joshua.  He  and  Thomas 
Joshua  romped  on  the  carpet  for  a  half  hour.  After 
we'd  got  Joshua  away  to  bed  and  we  sat  talking 
about  the  future,  Herb  broke  down  and  cried  like  a 
motherless  little  boy  and  —  told  me  —  us  !  —  all 
about  it." 

"This,"  said  Mibb,  arising  coldly,  "is  as  enlight 
ening  as  it  is  disgusting.  Herb  —  going  around  — 
peddling  tales  of  our  privacies  —  to  the  neighbors 
j" 

"The  fault  is  yours,  Mabel.  You  shouldn't  give 
him  cause." 

"He  had  probably  been  drinking." 

"Yes,  a  little  bit.  It  made  me  feel  very  badly. 
I've  been  thinking  about  it  all  the  week." 

"Indeed!  How  many  men  do  you  require  —  to 
feel  badly  for?  I  should  think  the  mess  you've 
made  marrying  a  wage-slave  like  Jack  Purse  who 
can't  provide  you  with  a  home  bigger  than  a  doll 
house  and  the  whole  proposition  saddled  with  debt 
—  would  be  quite  sufficient." 

"Herbert  and  I  were  quite  good  friends  for  a 
long  time  before  he  married  you,  Mabel." 

"But  not  good  friends  enough  so  that  he  asked 
you  to  be  his  wife." 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  177 

"I  never  wanted  —  to  be  his  wife."  She  said  it 
slowly,  wondering  if  she  were  telling  a  falsehood. 

"Because  you  never  stood  a  chance.  You  know 
the  story  about  the  fox  and  the  grapes." 

In  the  voice  of  a  lady,  Mary  replied  : 

"Herbert  has  been  like  a  brother.  In  fact,  I 
remember  very  distinctly  the  time  and  situation 
when  he  asked  if  he  might  consider  me  as  a  sister." 

"All  of  which  is  as  amusing  as  it  is  illuminating." 
The  Henderson  girl  affected  a  fine  superiority.  Then 
her  mood  changed.  With  a  deadly  expression  of 
cheap-charactered  bad  temper,  she  snapped:  "But 
if  he  thinks  he's  got  license  to  peddle  our  domestic 
differences  all  over  Paris  just  because  I'm  too  wise 
to  tie  myself  down  to  a  brace  of  night-squalling 
sour-smelling  brats,  he's  going  to  find  he's  started 
something  he'll  have  a  warm  time  to  finish."  She 
gathered  up  her  finery  and  made  ready  to  depart. 
"  I  wouldn't  have  a  young  one  for  a  million  dollars  I " 

"And  I  wish  I  could  have  a  dozen  and  I'd  pay  a 
million  dollars  for  each  one." 

"You  always  were  a  mopey,  sentimental  little 
fool.  I'm  sure  you're  welcome  to  your  worms  !" 

"You  don't  know,  Mibb  — " 

"Yes,  I  do  know.  That's  where  I'm  wise." 
She  made  a  significant  gesture  at  Mary  Purse. 
"Look  what  they  do  to  you.  They  keep  you  poor. 
They  twist  you  out  of  shape  with  pain  and  work. 
They  take  the  girlhood  out  of  your  face  and  your 
eyes,  they  tie  you  at  home,  they  break  your  heart  — " 

Mary's  eyes  fused  tears. 

"Perhaps,  Mibb,  it's  just  as  well  after  all  that  you 
have  none.  They  keep  you  poor  —  financially  — 
maybe.  They  twist  you  out  of  shape  with  pain  and 
work,  perhaps.  They  take  away  your  girlhood  and 


178  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

keep  you  at  home  —  I  admit  it.  But  as  for  breaking 
your  heart  —  you  don't  know  what  it  is  to  have  a 
heart  until  —  until  - 

"This  is  banal  and  disgusting." 

"Some  day,  Mibb,  I  think  you  will  be  very,  very 
sorry." 

"I'm  willing  to  take  my  chances.  I'd  like  a 
photograph  of  you  and  me  stood  up  side  by  side 
thirty  years  from  to-day.  It  might  tell  an  inter 
esting  story." 

"Yes,"  agreed  Mary,  "it  might." 

"I  came  up  here  in  all  good  friendship  to  see  your 
baby.  I  have  to  listen  to  a  sermon  about  that 
moth-eaten  theory  that  woman's  place  is  in  the 
home  sacrificing  herself  for  race  propagation.  I 
won't  bother  you  again.  We  think  differently. 
You're  old-fashioned.  Your  fireside-and-family 
notions  are  going  out  of  date.  There's  a  new  day 
dawning  for  women  and  I'm  not  staying  in  my 
house  and  pulling  down  my  curtains  and  refusing 
to  see  the  sunrise.  A  woman  has  the  right  to 
happiness ;  she  has  the  privilege  of  living  her  own 
life  in  her  own  way  as  much  as  a  man.  I  intend  to 
have  my  day  of  happiness  —  after  what  I've  come 
up  from  and  what  I've  endured.  I  intend  to  dic 
tate  what  my  life  shall  be  in  my  own  way.  Tell 
Herbert  that,  the  next  time  he  comes  around  here 
to  see  his  sister  — " 

"After  what  you've  come  up  from,  and  what 
you've  endured  !  O  Mabel!"  Mary  sighed.  "Some 
day  you  may  realize  that  there's  such  a  thing  as 
happiness  that  comes  from  not  dictating  what  our 
lives  shall  be,  but  in  putting  the  best  side  out  and 
making  the  most  of  things  in  any  and  all  situations 
in  which  we  find  ourselves.  I'm  not  at  all  con- 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  179 

vinced  that  people  who  dictate  their  own  lives  in 
their  own  way  are  happiest.  That  way  lies  selfish 
ness.  It  seems  to  me  that  in  the  case  of  a  woman, 
struggling  out  of  poverty,  being  twisted  out  of 
shape  with  pain  and  work,  losing  her  girlhood,  being 
tied  at  home  because  of  babies  —  in  short,  the 
sacrifice  of  herself  for  others  and  especially  little 
children,  all  comes  under  the  head  of  the  highest 
sort  of  service  one  can  render  the  world  and  the 
fellow-folk  in  it.  How  about  it,  Mabel?  And  if 
there's  a  'new  day  dawning'  as  you  seem  to  think, 
it's  the  day  when  service  is  going  to  be  glorified,  and 
generosity  and  gentleness  and  self-sacrifice  for  others 
considered  the  things  in  life  really  worth  while.  I'm 
not  at  all  impressed,  Mibb,  that  you've  read  or  are 
reading  correctly  the  signs  of  the  times." 

"More  sermonizing!"  snapped  Mibb.  "Good- 
by,  Mary  Purse !  Both  of  us  may  have  had  a 
common  girlhood  and  worked  side  by  side  at  a  type 
case.  But  beyond  that,  we  have  nothing  in  common 
and  as  for  me  I  am  perfectly  willing  right  here  that 
our  friendship  should  end." 

With  a  sad  face  Mary  laid  Thomas  Joshua  in  his 
carriage  and  started  to  show  Mibb  the  way  down 
stairs. 

"You  really  needn't  trouble  yourself."  Mabel 
Truman  turned  at  the  door.  "I'll  meet  you  thirty 
years  from  to-day,  Mary  Wood,  and  compare 
results  !" 

Mary  did  not  return  at  once  to  the  sprinkling  of 
her  clothes.  After  the  rich  woman  had  gone  and 
the  little  sitting  room  was  quiet,  she  lifted  Thomas 
Joshua  in  her  arms  and  sat  for  a  long  time  by  the 
window  in  the  cracking  rocker,  looking  down  through 
the  breeze- wafted  muslin  curtains  on  to  Mrs. 


180  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

Ashley's  side  flower  beds.  Thomas  Joshua  went  to 
sleep.  Half  an  hour  afterward,  when  it  was  entirely 
unnecessary,  she  started  humming  a  lullaby. 

When  Jack  came  home,  Mary  said : 

"Mibb  Truman  was  here  this  afternoon.  She 
came  to  see  Thomas  Joshua." 

"What  did  she  think  of  him?"  asked  Jack. 

"She  called  him  a  worm  !" 

"So  long  as  Thomas  Joshua  doesn't  turn  out  a 
bookworm  or  a  newspaper-office  grub,  I'm  satis 
fied,"  the  husband  declared.  He  was  glum  because 
things  had  not  gone  right  in  the  back  room  that 
afterrioon  and  he  was  worrying  about  the  bills. 

"I've  told  you,"  commented  Mary  quietly,  after 
transferring  a  sizzling  griddle  of  fried  something 
from  the  stove  to  the  table,  " — that  our  Thomas 
Joshua  is  going  to  be  a  preacher." 

"Don't  set  your  heart  on  it  too  strongly. 
Preachers  get  paid  even  worse  than  newspapermen." 

They  were  eating  supper  across  a  corner  of  the 
homemade  kitchen  table,  Thomas  Joshua  —  a  future 
pastor  —  dining  off  the  paint  on  a  huge  Noah's 
Ark,  the  gift  of  "Uncle  Herbert",  when  the  doorbell 
rang.  Jack  went  down  to  the  front  door.  In  a 
moment  he  had  returned  and  his  face  was  serious. 

"It  was  Judge  Farmer's  little  boy.  He  says  his 
father  wants  to  see  you  and  me  at  his  office  to-night 
at  eight  o'clock." 

"Me  !"  Mary's  face  paled. 

"On  some  kind  of  business." 

Again  the  fright  of  "law"  and  "business"  stabbed 
into  the  young  mother's  heart. 

"What  can  Judge  Farmer  possibly  want  of  you 
and  —  me  ?  " 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  181 

"I  don't  know.  Judge  Farmer's  little  boy  didn't 
know." 

"I  can't  go.  There's  no  one  to  look  after  Thomas 
Joshua ! " 

"Maybe  Mrs.  Ashley  will  come  up  for  an  hour." 


CHAPTER  IV 

IN  WHICH  A  LONG  LANE  TURNS  JUST  A  LITTLE  BIT 
AND  THEN  RESUMES  ITS  COURSE  AGAIN  AWAY  TO 
THE  HORIZON. 

OVER  thirty  years  have  passed  since  that  evening. 
To-day  Judge  Farmer  is  a  tall,  grim,  big-boned 
Vermonter  with  a  Mark-Twain  head  of  hair,  a  hawk 
like  nose  containing  a  mole  famous  in  three  States, 
and  a  pair  of  enormous  gray  moustaches  which  fall 
below  his  chin  like  the  tusks  on  a  walrus.  He  is  a 
dean  of  the  Paris  County  Bar,  president  of  the 
People's  National  Bank  and  director  in  half  a  dozen 
big  corporations.  But  this  night  back  in  the 
Eiglaties  he  was  a  rising  young  attorney  who  was 
somewhat  ceremonious  with  the  consciousness  of  a 
recent  judgeship  and  an  increasing  law  practice 
among  the  "best  people."  His  wavy  black  hair 
was  scrupulously  barbered  and  shining  with  bay 
rum,  he  wore  a  choice  set  of  the  black  "side  light" 
whiskers  of  the  period  and  a  tight-fitting  suit  of 
black  broadcloth  reputed  to  cost  more  money  than 
any  other  combination  of  male  attire  in  Paris  county. 

Jack  and  Mary  climbed  the  stairs  to  his  office  in 
the  southwest  corner  of  the  old  Hawkins  block  with 
misgivings  amounting  almost  to  panic.  It  meant 
something  in  those  days  to  be  "summoned"  to  a 
lawyer's  office  in  the  evening ! 

The  young  Judge  was  busy  with  his  law  books 
as  the  couple  entered.  He  arose  very  dignifiedly 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  183 

and  motioned  them  into  the  side  room  dominated 
by  a  life-sized  print  of  Daniel  Webster.  They  went 
in  and  took  seats  on  the  extreme  edge  of  chairs. 

At  length  Amos  Farmer  came  in,  carrying  an 
envelope  of  ominous  length  which  he  laid  down  on 
the  green  baize  table.  He  adjusted  a  swivel  chair 
for  his  long  richly-clad  legs  and  seated  himself 
gravely,  lighting  a  cigar  with  the  nicety  of  a  priest 
kindling  a  sacred  altar  fire. 

"I  hope,"  faltered  Mary,  "you  haven't  called  us 
down  on  account  of  bad  news." 

"Yes  and  no,"  replied  the  Judge,  clearing  his 
throat.  Which  only  made  the  young  man  and 
woman  the  more  uneasy. 

Jack  wet  his  lips.  Mary  gripped  the  chair-arms. 
Farmer  picked  up  the  long  envelope  and  emptied  it 
of  papers.  He  unfolded  and  smoothed  them  on  his 
knee.  They  looked  to  Jack  like  business  letters  and 
letter-press  replies. 

The  Judge  loved  effect  in  those  days.  No  one 
cares  less  for  it  at  present. 

"Mrs.  Purse,"  he  demanded,  "where  were  you 
bom?" 

"In  Foxboro  Center  —  in  Sixty-one." 

"And  your  parents  ?  " 

"My  father  was  Frederick  Wood.  My  mother's 
name  before  her  marriage  was  Sarah  Talmadge." 

"Ah,  yes.     Precisely.     Good.     Very  good." 

The  Judge  stroked  his  silky  black  whiskers.  He 
continued : 

"I  wish  to  corroborate  certain,  ah,  details  in  your 
genealogy.  Can  you  tell  me  anything  of  your 
father's  forebears  ?  " 

"He  was  the  son  of  Hebion  Wood  who  settled  in 


184  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

Bryant  township  in  Eighteen-thirty.  His  grand 
father  was  Micah  Wood  who  fought  in  the  Battle 
of  Bennington  — " 

"That  is  going  back  far  enough.  Now  about  your 
own  grandfather's  family;  about  Hebion  Wood. 
Whom  did  he  marry  ?  " 

"Grandma  Wood's  name  before  she  met  Grandpa 
was  Talmadge.  I  think  her  first  name  was  Matilda." 

"  Yes.  And  Matilda  Talmadge  and  Hebion  Wood 
had  how  many  children?" 

"Four,  Judge  Farmer.  One  died  while  a  baby 
and  is  buried  beside  Grandpa  and  Grandma  in  the 
family  lot  at  the  Center.  There  were  two  boys, 
my  uncles,  —  Adam  and  Josiah.  Adam  went  to 
Kansas  just  after  the  war  and  was  killed  by  the 
Indians ;  Josiah  went  out  to  Indiana  and  later  we 
heard  he  was  in  some  kind  of  business  in  Chicago. 
He's  living  there  now,  I  think.  I  never  saw  him. 
Mother  was  the  youngest,  born  while  Grandpa  and 
Grandma  lived  for  a  time  on  the  Holbrook  place 
over  to  Merrittsville  — ' 

"There  were  no  children  by  your  Uncle  Adam? 
Are  you  positive  ?  " 

"We  never  heard  of  Uncle  Adam  being  married." 

"And  Josiah?" 

"Mother  said  none  of  the  family  heard  from  him 
much  after  he  went  West.  There  was  some  trouble 
between  him  and  his  father,  I  think." 

"Ah,  yes.  Good.  Very  good.  Excellent.  Just 
as  I  wrote  them." 

"Wrote  who?" 

The  Judge  ignored  the  question.  It  was  all  part 
of  his  legal  "ceremony."  As  judge  of  probate,  he 
knew  all  of  this  but  also  as  part  of  his  love  for 
effect,  he  had  called  upon  the  woman  to  go 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  185 

through  it  to  add  to  the  mystery  and  import  of  the 
proceeding. 

"I  understand  you  had  a  half-brother  who  was 
amply  taken  care  of  by  your  stepfather's  demise." 

"Why,  Judge,  you  know  all  about  that.  You 
handled  it  yourself.  But  I  wouldn't  call  it  he  was 
'amply'  taken  care  of.  You  know  the  house  didn't 
bring  a  buyer  on  account  of  its  reputation  —  what 
Pa  Wheeler  did  —  and  the  bank  took  it  for  the 
mortgage.  It  hasn't  been  sold  yet,  has  it?" 

"No,"  Farmer  answered.  "But  to  get  back  to 
your  half-brother  and  your  immediate  family  :  There 
were  no  other  children  but  you  and  Arthur?" 

"Why  certainly  not!" 

"Then  I  take  it  that  outside  of  any  offspring  which 
your  Uncle  Josiah  might  have  left  in  the  West,  you 
are  the  only  living  representative  of  the  Hebion 
Woods?" 

"I  guess  I  am,  Mr.  Farmer." 

"Good.     Very  good.     Ah,  excellent." 

"What  has  happened,  Judge?  What  is  all  this 
about  ?  " 

"Two  months  ago,"  declared  the  Judge,  "I 
received  a  letter  from  Pitts,  Huling,  Donovan  and 
Wiley,  —  a  firm  of  attorneys  in  Chicago.  You 
asked  me  a  moment  ago  if  the  news  I  had  for  you 
was  bad.  In  one  respect  it  is,  although  I  presume 
the  relationship  is  so  far  removed  that  it  will  not 
seriously  grieve  you.  The  fact  is,  Mrs.  Purse,  your 
Uncle  Josiah  of  Chicago  has  passed  away." 

Mary  sat  searching  the  young  lawyer's  face  with 
frightened  eyes. 

"He  died  some  time  since,  at  what  date  I  am  not 
informed.  Two  months  ago,  I  say,  I  received  a 
letter  from  the  mentioned  firm  of  attorneys  request- 


186  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

ing  certain  facts  regarding  the  existence  of  any  mem 
bers  of  the  Hebion  Wood  family  or  other  near 
relatives.  I  replied  consistently  with  the  facts  you 
have  just  confirmed." 

"Yes,"  Mary  whispered. 

Jack  sat  with  wide-opened  eyes  and  lips  apart. 

"I  might  say  that  considerable  correspondence 
followed.  I  did  not  inform  you  what  was  in  progress 
for  I  did  not  wish  to  raise  false  hopes  and  bitter 
disappointment.  Things  have  come  to  the  point 
where  your  signature  is  required  to  certain  affidavits 
and  other  documents  and  therefore  — 

"My  signature  is  necessary  to  documents  ?  What 
do  you  mean?" 

"In  some  aspects  of  the  case  I  am  as  much  in  the 
dark  as  yourself.  From  present  indications,  how 
ever,  I  judge  it  safe  to  assert  that  you  are  about  to 
inherit  either  money  or  property." 

"I  —  am  —  about  —  to  —  inherit  — 

"The  amount  of  this  money  or  the  value  of  this 
property  has  not  been  disclosed  to  me.  I  have  been 
retained  by  Pitts,  Ruling,  Donovan  and  Wiley  to 
look  up  the  possible  heirs  of  Josiah  Wood  here  in 
Vermont.  From  certain  things  in  the  correspond 
ence  I  do  not  think  your  mother's  brother  died 
worth  a  very  great  amount.  But  so  far  as  I  can 
judge,  regardless  of  what  it  includes,  you  are  the  only 
beneficiary  — " 

"You  mean  somebody's  died  and  left  Jack  and 
me  money?  " 

"In  popular  parlance,  I  believe  such  to  have  been 
the  case.  Of  course,  it  will  take  some  little  time 
yet  to  settle  the  man's  estate  completely  and  before 
anything  tangible  is  forthcoming.  Also  there  will 
probably  be  the  settlement  fees  to  come  out  of  the 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  187 

sum.  I  would  advise  against  any  too  much  opti 
mism  at  present.  But  from  now  on  I  will  keep  you 
informed  of  the  progress  of  the  case  and  do  all  I  can 
to  facilitate  the  settlement." 

The  judge  laid  his  cigar  on  the  edge  of  the  table, 
found  the  proper  papers  from  among  the  sheaf, 
separated  them  and  spread  them  out  before  him. 
He  lifted  the  top  of  a  big  bronze  ink-well  and  dipped 
in  a  pen. 

"If  you  will  sign  these  affidavits,  Mrs.  Purse, 
here  on  the  lines  I  have  indicated,  we  will  not  pro 
long  your  visit  here  any  more  than  is  necessary." 

It  was  a  quarter  to  nine  when  the  girl  and  her 
husband  reached  the  sidewalk.  They  turned  the 
corner  by  the  bank,  went  up  Maple  Street  and 
toward  Pleasant. 

"Jack,"  whispered  the  girl  fearfully,  "it's  —  it's 
a  dream  !  Jack,  who  would  have  thought  that  help 
would  come  to  us  from  such  a  quarter.  Jack ! 
What's  the  matter?  Aren't  you  glad?" 

"For  your  sake,  yes.     For  my  sake  —  no  !" 

"Why  not?" 

"If  it's  a  lot  of  money,  I  couldn't  think  of  being 
a  male  'Mabel-Henderson.'  If  it's  only  a  little  — " 

"Isn't  all  that's  yours  mine  too,  Jack?" 

"Certainly,  dear." 

"Then  why  isn't  all  that's  mine  —  yours?" 

"It's  —  different !"  he  choked. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  INEVITABLE  HAPPENS  AS  WE  MAY  HAVE  SUR 
MISED  FROM  THE  START  —  AND  OUR  LITTLE  TOWN 
OF  PARIS  KNOWS  THE  HENDERSON  GIRL  NO 
LONGER. 

MIBB  went  to  Herbert's  office  on  River  Street 
directly  from  the  Purse  house.  Bud  Matherson 
told  her  that  Herb  had  gone  home  to  harness  Mon 
day-Washing  and  drive  over  to  Center  Foxboro  on 
business.  Mibb  went  back  to  the  Holland  place 
and  found  her  husband  in  the  big  ivy-covered  barn, 
currying  off  the  little  black  mare  himself.  He  never 
allowed  any  other  person  but  his  wife  to  care  for 
or  drive  the  animal. 

Somehow  Herb  had  grown  old.  Only  yesterday 
he  had  been  but  a  fat,  sportive,  good-natured  boy, 
—  easy-going,  affable,  but  with  a  certain  pathos 
about  his  well-meant  clumsiness.  Since  the  un 
happy  ending  to  his  love  affair  his  marriage  with 
spitfire,  irresponsible  Mabel,  the  constant  friction 
between  his  mother  and  his  mother-in-law,  the  death 
of  his  father,  the  unsuccessful  accession  to  the  place 
his  father  had  filled  so  profitably  in  the  town's  busi 
ness  life  and  the  untimely  demise  of  one  mammoth 
bulldog,  by  name  Cardinal  Wolsey,  from  eating  food 
covered  with  rat  poison  —  since  his  life  had  been 
shadowed  by  all  these  things,  Herb  had  become  a 
middle-aged  man  almost  in  a  twelvemonth.  The 
cowlick  which  for  years  had  been  a  county  joke  was 


THE   GREATER  GLORY  189 

not  so  obstreperous  as  formerly,  at  his  temples  a 
few  gray  hairs  were  showing.  There  were  lines  in 
his  face  and  his  eyes  were  always  tired.  Of  late 
it  was  whispered  around  that  "Herb  ain't  able  to 
stand  prosperity :  he's  takin'  a  quiet  drink  by  him 
self  occasionally." 

But  Mabel  cared  nothing  for  these  things  even 
if  she  noted  them. 

"I  want  to  know,"  she  demanded  hotly,  coming 
into  the  big  airy  varnished  interior  of  the  barn  where 
Monday-Washing  was  hitched  with  tie  ropes  from 
either  side  her  halter,  "  what  on  earth  you  mean  by 
going  over  to  the  Purses'  and  making  me  ridiculous  ?  " 

Herb  straightened  up  and  looked  at  her  with  a 
puzzled  frown.  Mibb's  eyes  were  blazing.  He  did 
not  comprehend,  but  he  sensed  domestic  breakers 
ahead.  And  the  sea  of  matrimony  had  been  in  a 
more  or  less  turbulent  condition  ever  since  he  had 
pushed  his  bark  from  the  shore.  He  turned  back 
to  his  horse,  scratched  over  a  space  of  the  glossy 
black  coat  and  tapped  out  the  currycomb  on  a 
doorpost. 

"Answer  me!"     And  Mibb  stamped  her  foot. 

"I  don't  know  what  you're  talkin'  about,"  he 
replied  dully. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  going  over  there  un 
beknown    to    me  —  the    Purses'    of    all    places !  — 
especially  to  that  little  sentimental  chit  of  a  Mary 
Purse  —  and  mewling  around  about  us  not  having 
a  lot  of  brats  !" 

Herb  curried  for  a  moment  in  silence. 

"Call  'em  children,"  he  suggested.  "It  sounds 
better!" 

"I'll  call  'em  what  I  please." 

"I  ain't  called  upon  for  no  explanations.     Reckon 


190  THE   GREATER  GLORY 

I  can  go  where  I  want  and  say  what  I  please.  There 
warn't  any  prohibition  o'  that  in  the  marriage 
license." 

"Haven't  you  any  sense  of  propriety?  Haven't 
you  any  family  pride?" 

"Family  pride?     Sure!     That's  why  I'd  like  a 
few  little  shavers  round  this  stiff  and  stuck-up  place 
-  like  Thomas  Joshua  of  the  Purses'." 

"But  if  you  and  I  don't  think  alike  on  that 
subject  doesn't  common  decency  and  manhood 
demand  that  you  keep  quiet  about  it  and  not  adver 
tise  our  differences  to  the  town?" 

"Ain't  advertised  'em  to  the  town.  Ain't  said 
a  word  about  you  to  the  Purses'  -  -  Mary  or  any 
body.  Just  been  over  there  a  few  times  and  played 
with  their  kid.  Where's  the  harm  in  that  ?  " 

"You  must  have  said  something  about  it  or  Mary 
Purse  wouldn't  have  known." 

"Mary  Purse  ain't  nobody's  female  fool,  I  guess. 
That's  more'n  I  can  say  o'  some  people." 

"So  you'd  insult  me  !" 

"I  wish  I  had  the  cussedness  in  me  to  insult  you. 
Wish  I  had  it  in  me  to  be  a  damned  wife-beater. 
Maybe  we'd  both  be  happier." 

"If  you  ever  laid  a  finger  on  me,  you  know  what 
would  happen.  I'd — I'd  leave  you,  Herb  Truman— 
I'd  leave  you  as  sure  as  God  made  little  apples!" 

"I  believe  it,"  Herb  rejoined.  "That's  why  I 
say  I  wish  I  had  it  in  me  and  then  both  of  us'd 
be  happier." 

Mibb  bit  her  lip.  The  blood  ran.  She  grew  a  bit 
hysterical. 

"Yes,"  she  cried  shrilly,  "you  talked  like  that  to 
me  the  night  we  rode  down  to  Brattleboro,  didn't 
you  ?  A  pretty  way  to  cheat  a  girl  —  marry  her 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  191 

and  take  away  her  liberty  so  she  can't  marry  any 
body  else  without  a  divorce  or  a  scandal  and  then  - 

"I  can't  see  as  you're  the  one  that's  cheated. 
What  about  me?" 

"  You  !     You  !     What  about  you  ?  - 

Herb  tossed  the  currycomb  nonchalantly  into 
the  rack  and  picking  up  the  big  black  brush  he 
began  using  it  on  Monday-Washing's  fine-spun  tail. 

"Yes,  what  about  me  !" 

"You  think  more  of  that  mare  than  you  think  of 


me 


"She's  worth  more!  At  least  she's  honest  and 
square  and  don't  try  to  be  what  God  never  made 
her  to  be  in  the  first  place.  She  gives  me  square 
service;  she's  always  glad  to  see  me;  she  loves 
me  —  a  little  bit !  - 

Beside  herself,  the  girl  raised  the  parasol  and 
sprang  at  the  mare's  head. 

"So  she  loves  you  !     Fiddlesticks  !" 

She  struck  the  sociable  little  animal  —  one, 
two,  three  sharp  blows  across  the  head. 

"Stop!"  roared  Herbert  as  the  mare  reared 
wildly. 

He  came  around  to  the  horse's  head. 

"Do  that  again  and  there'll  be  —  trouble!"  he 
said  hoarsely. 

"There'll  be  trouble!  What  kind  of  trouble? 
What  will  you  do  ?  What  ?  " 

He  quieted  his  horse,  stroking  the  silky  nose  and 
the  quivering  nostrils. 

"Mibb,"  he  said  hoarsely,  "you  and  me  just  don't 
hitch  and  the  sooner  we  realize  it  the  better.  I've 
give  you  whatever  you've  wanted  in  the  way  o' 
money ;  I've  bought  this  place  and  fixed  it  up  for 
you  just  as  you  and  that  hellion  of  a  mother  o'  yours 


192  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

wanted.  I  said  I'd  be  a  sport  and  play  square  and 
perhaps  try  to  get  you  to  love  me  - 

"You  talk  as  though  you'd  done  me  a  favor  by 
marrying  me." 

"Which  I  did.  You  never  give  a  hoot  for  me. 
It  was  what  cash  I  had  access  to  that  made  you  do 
it.  If  I'd  been  poor  as  Jack  Purse  you  wouldn't 
have  done  it  in  a  thousand  years.  But  I  was  pretty 
well  fixed  and  heart-hungry  for  a  woman  like  - 

"Like  Mary  Purse!" 

"Yes,  like  Mary  Purse,  God  damn  it !  I'd  asked 
Mary  Purse  to  marry  me  and  she'd  turned  me  down 
because  she  couldn't  love  me  somehow,  only  as  a 
sister — and  I  was  heart-broke.  I  was  half  crazy  the 
night  I  heard  she  was  marryin'  Jack,  and  anything 
in  petticoats  that'd  show  some  aspects  o'  woman 
hood,  I'd  a-married  at  the  drop  of  a  hat  just  to  feel 
I  was  hitched  to  somebody  and  had  some  interest 
in  life  - 

"And  I  came  along  and  was  picked  up  and  mar 
ried  like  a  hand-me-down !" 

"Call  it  what  you  like.  I  married  you  thinkin' 
you'd  give  at  least  value  received  for  what  I'd  try 
to  do  for  you.  But  it's  been  a  miserable  farce  from 
first  to  last  and  every  day  always  makes  it  worse. 
The  place  ain't  far  off  where  it'll  all  come  to  an  end. 
There  just  ain't  nothin'  to  you,  Mibb.  Not  even 
sympathy.  A  man  can  forgive  a  woman  for  every 
sin  in  the  decalogue  and  put  up  with  every  vice  and 
selfishness  a  small-bored  woman  can  contract  —  so 
long  as  she  gives  him  sympathy  in  what  he  is  and 
what  he's  tryin'  to  do.  A  man's  a  brute,  too,  to 
make  a  woman  have  youngsters  that  she  don't  want 
'em  and  even  that  won't  break  his  love  and  regard 
for  her  if  —  if  —  she's  sympathetic.  But  — " 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  193 

"So  it's  sympathy  you  want?" 

She  stepped  up  to  him  and  asked  him  the  question 
viciously. 

"  It's  somethin'  —  " 

"  It's  sympathy  you  want  ?  " 

With  drawn  face,  tired  eyes,  he  raised  his  head 
and  looked  at  her. 

And  as  he  did  so,  she  struck  him !  —  struck  him 
a  swift,  sharp  blow  across  his  face. 

"You  -  -  you  —  Jezebel!"  whispered  Herb 
hoarsely. 

"I  won't  have  to  be  asked  to  get  out  twice,"  she 
said. 

She  turned  abruptly  and  walked  out. 

He  put  his  grimy  hand  up  to  his  face  and  drew 
it  away  as  though  half  expecting  to  see  blood  on  the 
place  where  she  had  struck  him.  Finding  none,  he 
stood  there  for  a  moment,  stroking  the  mare's 
forgiving  head,  his  eyes  looking  wistfully  far  away. 

Then  he  walked  over  and  sat  down  on  the  lowest 
of  the  hayloft  stairs. 

For  half  an  hour  he  simply  sat  there,  his  face  in 
his  hands. 

Two  nights  later  we  ran  this  item  in  our  paper. 

Mrs.  Harvey  Henderson,  with  her  daughter,  Mrs. 
Herbert  Truman,  with  whom  she  has  been  making 
her  home  since  the  daughter's  marriage,  left  town  last 
evening  for  a  week's  stay  in  New  York,  following 
which  they  will  sail  for  a  three-months'  trip  to 
Europe.  Mrs.  Silas  Truman,  Mr.  Truman's  mother, 
will  keep  house  for  her  son  during  the  wife's  absence. 

Mibb  Truman,  nee  Henderson,  had  "left"  her 
husband. 


CHAPTER  VI 

IN  WHICH  THE  PURSES'  "Snip  COMES  IN"  -¥ET 
A  RATHER  DlMINUTJVE  LlTTLE  VESSEL  WITH 
ONLY  A  MODEST  CARGO  IN  HER  HOLDS  BUT  HER 
DECKS  PILED  HIGH  WITH  HUMAN  HAPPINESS. 

THINGS  droned  along  in  our  little  town  for  a  month 
or  so  after  Mabel  and  her  mother  left.  Some  one 
asked  Herb  in  Jimmy  Stiles'  barber  shop  one  night 
why  he  hadn't  gone  with  them. 

"I  wanted  'em  to  enjoy  the  trip  —  if  they  can," 
he  replied  and  walked  out,  leaving  the  boys  wonder 
ing  exactly  what  he  meant. 

"Some  one  ought  to  take  a  harness  tug  to  them 
Hendersons  —  mother  and  daughter ! "  declared 
Uncle  Joe  Fodder  from  a  corner.  "Every  dog  may 
have  his  day  but  the  Bible  never  said  nothin'  about 
the  cats  !  And  Herb  —  he's  a  good  man  goin'  all 
to  pieces  just  because  things  ain't  natural  some- 
wheres.  You  know  what  I  mean.  Bud  Matherson 
was  in  my  place  yesterday  to  get  a  rig  to  take  that 
red-headed  Peters  girl  up  'spoon'  river.  He  says 
the  day  after  Mibb  and  her  mother  got  out  in  such 
a  nice  pretty  dignified  way,  Herb  was  all  clogged  up 
with  liquor  and  had  to  go  home  in  the  afternoon  and 
sleep  it  off.  The  boy's  goin'  to  hell  and  I  don't 
know's  I  blame  him !" 

Herb  on  the  night  in  question  emerged  from  the 
barber  shop  and  started  up  Maple  Street.  At  the 
foot  of  the  hill  he  met  Mary  and  Jack,  coining  down 


THE   GREATER  GLORY  195 

arm-in-arm.  With  a  cry  of  delight,  Mary  saw  him 
and  ran  up  to  him. 

"Herbert !  Herbert !"  she  cried,  her  face  shining, 
her  voice  atremble.  "What  do  you  suppose  has 
happened  to  us,  Herbert  ?  " 

"I  dunno." 

"Jack  and  I  are  going  to  inherit  money !  It's 
from  an  uncle  in  Chicago  I've  never  seen.  He  died 
and  left  us  his  estate.  The  executor  turned  it  into 
cash  and  has  sent  the  money  on  to  Judge  Farmer 
for  us.  Mr.  Farmer's  little  boy  just  brought  us  word 
that  it's  come.  We're  going  down  after  it  now." 

"Money?"  said  Herb.  He  spoke  the  word  as 
though  it  were  tar  and  acid  in  his  mouth.  "How 
much?" 

"We  don't  know  yet."  She  was  a  little  sobered 
by  Herbert's  indifference. 

"Aren't  you  glad  for  us,  Herbert?" 

"That,"  the  other  replied,  "depends  on  how  much 
it  is !"  He  moved  away.  "I  ain't  feelin*  just 
right  to-night,"  he  explained.  "Excuse  me." 

Mary  looked  after  him  sadly. 

Then  she  turned  and  continued  her  energetic  walk 
downtown  with  Jack.  After  a  few  blocks  she  said  : 

"Did  you  smell  his  breath?  It's  too  bad,  Jack. 
Somehow  I  feel  personally  responsible.  And  yet 
I  couldn't  do  any  different,  could  I  ?  " 

"What  do  you  mean?"   Jack  demanded  sharply. 

"Some  day,  Jack,"  she  said,  "I'll  tell  you !" 

And  nothing  more  could  the  husband  get  from  the 
wife  of  his  heart. 

They  found  Judge  Farmer  as  before  busy  over  his 
law  books  —  or  pretending  to  be  —  and  pompous 
and  dignified  and  inclined  to  ceremony. 


196  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

"You — sent  for  us?"  asked  Mary. 

"I  did,  Mrs.  Purse.  I  have  heard  from  Chicago 
that  the  Wood  estate  has  been  entirely  settled  and 
all  the  law  been  complied  with." 

"And  Uncle  Josiah  actually  did  leave  us  his 
money  ?  " 

"At  least  to  you,  Mrs.  Purse,"  smiled  the  Judge. 

"And  when  will  it  arrive,  do  you  think?"  she 
asked.  "You  see,  if  it's  of  any  size  I've  made  so 
many  plans  for  it  — " 

"I  have  the  check  here  on  my  desk  —  and  the 
papers.  They  arrived  this  afternoon." 

"  You  —  have  —  the  —  money  —  here  ?  " 

"  Yes.     But  I  warned  you  not  to  expect  too  much." 

"If  it's  only  enough  to  pay  up  our  debts  and  leave 
us  free  just  to  work  and  save  for  ourselves  and  the 
youngsters,  I'll  thank  the  dear  God  humbly ! "  the 
girl  declared. 

"Youngsters!"  cried  the  Judge.  "There  isn't 
but  one,  is  there  ?  " 

"Suppose  we  get  to  the  business!"  exclaimed 
Jack  suddenly. 

The  color  gradually  became  normal  in  the  young 
woman's  face.  Judge  Farmer  spread  out  more 
official-looking  documents.  He  finished  with  the 
arrangement  of  the  papers  and  lastly  on  the  top  he 
laid  a  long  narrow  slip  of  pink  paper  face  downward. 

"How  much  are  your  debts?"  he  asked.  "I 
suppose  you  are  referring  to  the  bankruptcy  of 
Jack's  father." 

"Those  debts  of  mine  will  never  be  paid  with 
Mary's  legacy  if  it's  a  million  dollars ! "  declared 
Jack  grimly. 

Mary  placed  a  hand  over  his  mouth.  Playfully 
holding  it  there  she  replied  : 


THE   GREATER  GLORY  197 

"Three  thousand,  seven  hundred  and  eighty 
dollars  right  this  minute,  Judge."  Then  she 
gathered  herself  together  as  though  to  meet  a 
shock  and  asked  :  "  Will  —  the  legacy  —  cover  it, 
Judge?" 

It  was  very  quiet  in  the  little  corner  room.  A 
clock  ticked  on  the  wall  opposite  Webster's  picture. 
A  blue  bottle  fly  buzzed  against  a  dusty  window. 

"It  will,"  said  the  Judge.  "The  amount  left  you 
comes  to  five  thousand  and  five  hundred  and  fifty 
dollars  and  twenty-five  cents  !" 

Mary  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"It  pays  the  debts,"  she  declared  hoarsely,  "and 
Jack,  it  leaves  us  —  it  leaves  us  —  with  a  whole 
thousand  dollars  over,  for  you  to  get  into  some 
business  ! " 

Jack  leaped  up  and  walked  to  the  window.  He 
stood  looking  down  into  the  square. 

"Don't  be  a  fool,  young  man,"  declared  the 
Judge.  "You've  got  a  wife  that  loves  you.  Thank 
God  for  her  ! " 

"It  cheats  me  !  Cheats  me  out  of  the  satisfaction 
of  making  a  real  effort  to  come  up  to  the  scratch." 

"Tommyrot,  young  man!"  retorted  Farmer. 
"I  guess  you  find  the  job  of  raising  those  youngsters 
—  that  youngster  !  —  hard  enough  without  looking 
for  a  slow  smouldering  financial  fire  to  make  you  a 
martyr  to  your  principles." 

"It's  Mary's  money  —  I'll  never  touch  it !" 

Mary  had  the  check  in  her  hands.  She  winked 
at  the  Judge  and  made  a  gesture  not  to  mind  any 
thing  Jack  might  say.  Then  her  eyes  sought  the 
figures  on  the  paper  —  figures  which  in  those  days 
meant  a  competency,  figures  which  to  her  poor 
financially  starved  scheme  of  things  meant  a  for- 


198  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

tune.  If  it  had  been  fifty  or  a  hundred  thousand 
dollars,  the  amount  could  have  meant  no  more. 

Fifty-five  hundreds  of  dollars  ! 

The  figures  swam  before  her  gaze.  Frantically 
she  fingered  in  her  bosom  for  her  handkerchief. 
She  sank  down  into  the  chair,  her  pretty  brown  head 
bowed  in  her  arms  on  the  edge  of  the  Judge's  table. 

"What  are  you  weeping  for?"  demanded  Farmer. 

"That's  the  way  a  woman  signifies  she's  having 
a  good  time,"  declared  Jack  grimly,  without  looking 
around. 

The  papers  and  receipts  were  duly  signed,  sealed 
and  delivered.  The  check  formally  became  her 
property.  The  Judge  said  they  didn't  owe  him 
anything ;  he'd  been  paid  from  Chicago.  He  shook 
hands  with  them  elaborately  and  they  went  out. 

Mary  carried  the  check  all  the  way  home  in  her 
hand.  Jack  spoke  not  a  word. 

"Jack,"  she  pleaded,  "can't  you  act  as  happy 
over  it  as  I  would  have  been  if  you  had  been  the 
one  left  the  money?" 

"It's  —  different,"  choked  Jack.  "It  puts  me 
in  a  worse  position  than  ever.  I'm  frantic  at  times 
about  getting  ahead." 

"We've  got  a  start  now,"  she  declared. 

"Mary,"  he  begged,  "keep  that  money  in  your 
own  bank  account  —  for  yourself.  I  want  to  make 
good  for  the  sake  of  my  own  pride  —  for  the  sake  of 
doing  it." 

She  put  the  check  in  the  clock  for  safe  keeping 
until  morning.  After  Jack  had  dropped  asleep  she 
stole  out  of  bed  and  took  it  out  of  the  clock.  What 
of  robbers?  Fire?  It  was  an  awful  responsibility 
-  this  having  such  vast  wealth  loose  around  the 
house.  She  got  an  envelope  and  tucked  it  under 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  199 

her  pillow  and  fell  asleep  at  last  to  see  visions  and 
dream  dreams.  And  Thomas  Joshua,  awake  early 
in  the  morning  —  an  idiosyncrasy  peculiar  to  infants 
in  some  quarters  —  saw  a  corner  of  the  envelope 
protruding  from  beneath  his  mother's  pillow  just 
above  his  head  and  drew  it  forth.  Kind  angels 
awakened  Mary,  and  a  wild  shriek  awakened  Jack. 
For  Thomas  Joshua  was  just  preparing  to  eat  fifty- 
five  hundreds  of  dollars  at  one  vast  extravagant 
gulp. 

One  week  later  we  took  a  batch  of  mail  out  and 
passed  it  to  Jack  across  the  imposing  stone. 

Purse  ran  over  many  of  the  corner-cards  on  the 
envelopes  and  his  face  wore  a  frightened  look. 

"Duns  !'*  he  cried.  "But  why  have  they  arrived 
all  at  once  ?  " 

He  ripped  one  open  and  read  ! 

Dear  Sir : 

We  enclose  herewith  receipt  in  full  for  the  money 
owed  us  on  North  Sidney  Bulletin  invoices  after- 
settlement  of  twenty  cents  on  the  dollar  by  Judge 
Atherton.  Please  accept  our  sincere  thanks  for  the 
same.  You  have  acted  very  fairly  in  this  matter. 

Envelope  after  envelope  he  tore  open  until  there 
was  a  waste  basket  of  papered  clutter  on  the  forms  he 
was  making  up.  And  when  he  realized  what  had 
happened  he  went  over  and  sat  down  by  the  big 
press  and  ran  his  fingers  through  his  hair  until  it 
was  a  worse  mess  than  Herb's  cowlick  had  been  in 
its  wildest  days. 

Sam  came  over  and  wanted  to  know  what  had 
happened. 

"Poor  Mary's  gone  to  work  —  and  paid  up  — 


200  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

everything  I  owe  or  ever  have  owed,  out  of  that 
legacy  she  got  from  her  uncle." 

He  rubbed  his  hands  nervously  together. 

"  Well,  what  did  you  want  her  to  do  —  buy  a 
horse-car  line?" 

"No,  but— " 

"But  what?" 

"  Can't  you  understand  how  I  feel  about  it  — 
having  a  woman  pay  my  bills  ?  " 

"Yes,  I  can.  But  I  can  feel  too  what  pleasure 
it  gave  to  Mary  when  she  did  it." 

"Pleasure!  Spending  money  by  mailing  it  out 
to  a  list  of  names  and  never  getting  a  thing  but  so 
many  thank  you's  ?  " 

"Of  feeling  that  she  has  been  able  to  really  help 
you  out  of  a  bad  situation.  Young  man,  you've 
got  a  family  and  a  future  to  work  for  and  the  god  of 
luck  has  freed  you  from  debt.  Show  what's  in  you ; 
go  at  your  task  of  winning  success  with  the  idea  that 
when  the  time  comes,  you'll  pay  Mary  back  a 
thousandfold." 

Jack  went  back  to  his  stones,  gathered  up  his  mail 
sadly  and  put  it  in  his  pocket. 

He  drew  Mary  to  him  that  noontime  with  great 
terrible  man  tears  rolling  down  his  cheeks.  Gripped 
in  his  embrace,  her  own  features  shining,  she  knew 
then  that  he  knew  what  she  had  done. 

"The  rest  —  oh,  Mary  —  keep  the  rest  —  for 
Tommy's  education.  Promise  me  ! " 

"The  rest  goes  to  help  you  get  into  some  good 
business.  Then  the  business  can  pay  for  Thomas 
Joshua's  education  through  theological  school !  " 

Mrs.  Hod  came  over  to  the  Purses'  that  evening 
after  some  thread  to  match  her  mauve  silk.  As  she 
declared  afterward,  if  she'd  seen  the  ghost  of  Julius 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  201 

Caesar  walk  into  the  room  dressed  in  a  Japanese 
umbrella  and  a  pair  of  rubber  boots,  she  couldn't 
have  been  more  startled  than  when  she  heard  Jack 
Purse   striding   up   and   down   the   kitchen   and  — 
swearing. 

"What's  happened?"  gasped  that  good  lady, 
properly  horrified. 

"Oh,  I  took  the  legacy  money,  you  know,  and  paid 
all  the  bills  so  that  we're  free  —  free  —  free  !  And 
Jack's  out  there  cussing  over  it.  Let  him  alone! 
That's  the  way  a  man  signifies  he's  having  a  good 
time  ! "  answered  Mary  sweetly. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  MILLS  OF  THE  GODS  GRIND  SLOWLY  ONWARD 
AND  THE  PURSES  HAVE  A  SlJDDEN  ADDITION  TO 
THEIR  FAMILY  WITH  WHICH  THE  STORK  HAS 
NOTHING  TO  Do. 

LET  us  turn  back  to  the  files.  Having  elaborated 
on  the  "lead  stories"  found  in  those  blurred  pages 
and  having  a  special  significance  to  our  narrative, 
let  us  skim  through  half  a  dozen  items  of  minor 
importance. 

For  instance,  here  is  a  brief  account  of  the  marriage 
of  Esmeralda  Truman  to  some  chap  in  New  York 
with  a  name  like  a  villain  in  the  Seaside  Library. 
And  a  few  months  further  on  we  note  that  Mrs. 
Silas  Truman  has  left  for  New  York  to  make  her 
home  with  her  daughter  and  that  her  son  Herbert 
will  reside  temporarily  at  the  Whitney  House.  We 
were  gullible  enough  for  a  time  to  believe  that  Mrs. 
Truman  Senior's  explanation  "daughter  needs  me" 
was  tantamount  to  announcing  that  Esmeralda 
wanted  her  mother  near  her  through  the  advent  of 
a  youngster.  We  subsequently  demonstrated  that 
she  was  one  of  those  women  who  must  have  a  back 
ground  against  which  the  lights  and  shadows  of  her 
character  can  be  shown  to  advantage.  The  Seaside- 
Library  husband  having  a  will  of  his  own,  however, 
and  a  jaw  too  square  to  allow  his  wife  to  get  away 
with  her  role  of  Mrs.  Hawksbee,  the  mother  was  sent 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  203 

for  and  we  understand  she  fulfilled  her  function 
faithfully  until  death. 

Four  months  further  along  in  the  files,  we  come 
to  the  ending  of  the  pitiful,  miserable  career  of 
Mary's  half-brother,  the  idiot  Artie,  in  an  asylum 
down  in  Massachusetts.  The  body  was  sent  back 
to  Foxboro  for  interment  and  laid  beside  his  father 
and  mother  in  the  family  lot.  There  was  a  prayer 
at  the  grave.  The  casket  was  not  opened. 

When  we  lie  back  in  an  old  office  chair  with  a 
friendly  pipe  in  the  quiet  hours  and  think  of  the 
changes  which  the  last  thirty  years  have  wrought, 
more  and  more  do  we  come  to  think  of  life  only  as 
a  constant  readjustment,  a  constant  replacing  of 
new  faces  for  old,  a  constant  swapping  of  friendships 
and  exchanging  of  the  old  and  antiquated  for  the 
better.  After  all,  the  only  thing  permanent  in  life 
is  change.  The  sane  and  happy  person  is  he  who 
can  accept  life  as  such  and  adapt  himself  most 
quickly  and  thoroughly  to  the  circumstances. 

As  for  Jack  and  Mary  Purse,  the  files  place  all 
their  family  vicissitudes  in  very  orderly  and  quite 
rational  fashion.  But  if  we  had  no  great  diary  of 
the  town's  life  to  thus  guide  us  and  if  we  were 
dependent  upon  memory  alone,  we  would  have  set 
it  down  that  the  babies  seemed  to  come  along  in  the 
Purse  household  in  record-breaking  fashion  after 
the  advent  of  Thomas  Joshua.  It  was  one  of  the 
unexplainable  things  in  life  that  they  should  all  have 
run  to  boys,  but  that  is  what  happened.  Fred  and 
Theodore  were  born  the  fall  after  Mibb  and  her 
mother  left  Herbert  and  went  to  Europe,  and  Mary 
was  busier  in  her  little  home  than  ever. 

It  is  unexplainable  also  that  the  birth  of  twins 
should  be  looked  upon  by  average  American  folks 


204  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

as  a  joke  on  the  parents.  It  was  anything  but  a 
joke  to  Jack  Purse.  Not  that  he  didn't  love  the 
youngsters  as  his  life,  but  that  he  was  beginning  to 
grow  gray  at  the  temples  prematurely,  wondering 
when  that  business  chance  was  coming  along  which 
should  provide  the  money  necessary  for  their  bring 
ing  up  and  education. 

We  have  always  given  Jack  full  credit;  he  tried 
to  do  his  best  by  his  family  and  his  job.  That  was 
the  pathos  of  it.  There  were  times  when  panic 
seized  him  and  he  wondered  if  there  was  indeed  any 
"future"  before  him,  if  all  his  energies  and  his  life 
must  be  spent  sticking  to  his  job  in  the  newspaper 
office  which  was  steady  and  permanent,  —  and 
raising  those  boys  without  any  great  wealth  of 
money  but  just  rich  in  character  and  manhood, 
a  little  bit  better  men  than  their  father  had  been 
before  them,  taught  to  avoid,  if  possible,  their 
father's  mistakes. 

America  is  filled  with  that  kind  of  men,  men  who 
feel  as  the  days  slip  away  and  the  bills  keep  coming 
in  and  money  must  be  secured  to  meet  them,  that 
they  may  have  already  shot  their  bolt  and  missed ; 
that  the  best  part  of  their  lives  is  passing ;  that  the 
best  they  can  do  is  to  equip  those  young  lives  for 
whom  they  are  responsible  to  take  up  the  battle  of 
life  where  their  father  left  it  off  and  carry  it  forward 
to  a  better  conclusion.  They  are  heroes,  these 
fathers.  They  are  the  real  blue-bloods  and 
thoroughbreds  by  which  this  nation  is  great. 

Thomas  Joshua  and  Frederick  and  Theodore 
Herbert  came  along  in  those  years  while  the  Purses 
were  living  on  Pleasant  Street  and  Jack  was  drawing 
eighteen  dollars  a  week  in  our  office  and  looking  for 
some  kind  of  opening.  And  the  year  of  the  Truman 


THE   GREATER  GLORY  205 

bankruptcy  Richard  Samuel  put  in  his  tiny  appear 
ance  and  demanded  his  rights  as  an  infant  and  got 
them. 

The  year  of  the  Truman  bankruptcy !  Let  us 
refresh  our  memory  by  the  files.  Yes,  it  was  in 
1890  that  the  Truman  Wagon  Works  went  into  the 
hands  of  the  sheriff.  It  was  in  1890  that  changes 
took  place  in  the  lives  of  some  of  our  story  folk 
indeed. 

It  did  not  come  wholly  unexpected,  the  Truman 
bankruptcy.  The  town  knew  that  Herb  was  drink 
ing  heavily,  and  that  for  some  mysterious  reason  the 
Purses  were  trying  desperately  to  save  him.  But 
for  an  equally  mysterious  reason,  every  time  there 
was  a  new  young  one  in  the  Purse  home,  Herb  went 
on  a  spree  —  a  terrible  spree  —  and  the  last  one 
ended  in  his  being  arrested  and  detained  in  Sheriff 
Crumpett's  emporium  under  the  town  hall  over 
night  because  behind  the  reins  of  Monday-Washing 
he  was  a  menace  to  the  safety  of  our  public  streets. 

Judge  Farmer,  who  had  gone  on  the  board  of 
directors  of  the  People's  National  Bank,  gave  it  out 
that  Mibb  had  drawn  drafts  on  the  husband  which 
time  and  again  cleaned  Herb  out  of  ready  cash  and 
once  caused  the  wagon  works  to  skip  a  pay  roll. 
The  Judge  had  a  long  talk  with  Herbert  on  that 
occasion  and  advised  the  husband  to  let  the  drafts 
be  reported  back  as  unpaid.  But  Herb  said  he 
couldn't  do  that.  Mibb  might  have  received  money 
on  them  and  if  one  came  back  unpaid  it  might  lead 
to  her  arrest  and  all  manner  of  scandal.  Thereat 
the  Judge  secured  Mabel's  address  and  wrote  her 
a  harsh  letter  about  which  Herb  never  knew.  For 
a  time  the  sums  she  asked  for  were  reasonable. 
WTien  she  drew  a  check  on  a  big  New  York  jewelry 


206  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

house  for  a  sum  that  would  have  supported  the 
Purse  family  for  a  year  and  at  the  same  time  Herb 
had  to  sell  the  Holland  place  to  meet  some  of  his 
notes,  the  Judge  knew  the  end  was  only  a  matter 
of  time.  The  directors  of  the  People's  National 
called  in  Herb's  paper.  That  finished  him.  He 
made  an  assignment. 

Bud  Matherson  was  placed  in  charge  to  run  the 
business  for  a  time  for  the  benefit  of  the  creditors. 

Herb  appeared  one  night  at  the  Purses'.  His 
clothes  were  wrinkled  and  his  face  unshaven.  His 
eyes  were  a  trifle  bleared  and  his  voice  cracked. 
But  he  was  far  from  being  intoxicated. 

Most  bankrupts  make  frantic  and  hopeless  effort 
to  recoup.  They  try  to  convince  their  friends  that 
the  embarrassment  is  only  temporary.  They  go 
around  snapping  rubber  bands  on  papers  and  looking 
hopeful  and  important  and  then  —  as  the  tide  goes 
against  them  —  explaining  to  every  one  who  will 
listen,  exactly  how  it  happened  and  that  everybody 
else  in  the  business  was  to  blame  but  themselves. 
But  Herb  did  none  of  these  things.  He  was  listless 
and  silent  and  seemingly  relieved  that  the  respon 
sibility  had  slipped  from  his  shoulders.  He  got 
down  on  the  floor  and  played  with  the  little  Purse 
boys  until  Jack  came  home  from  the  shop  and  then 
with  a  sigh  he  got  up  and  sat  in  a  chair  and  became 
apologetic. 

"Jack,"  he  said  unevenly,  "I  ain't  ever  asked 
many  real  favors  o'  you  folks  exceptin'  to  come  over 
now  and  then  and  take  your  kids  to  a  circus,  have 
I?" 

"No,"  Jack  replied. 

"I  got  one  big  favor  to  ask  of  you  now." 

Jack   thought   Herb    wanted   to   borrow   money. 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  207 

He  would  have  loaned  it  gladly  had  there  been  any 
prospect  of  getting  it  back,  despite  the  fact  that 
because  of  the  youngsters  and  doctors  and  clothing 
and  grocery  bills  Mary's  fifteen  hundred  odd  dollars 
remaining  from  the  legacy  had  gradually  dissolved 
until  but  eight  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  were  left. 

"What  is  it,  Herb?" 

"How  much  money  you  got,  Jack?  That's 
personal,  but  I'd  just  like  to  know  before  I  speak 
what  I  come  for." 

"We've  got  —  several  hundred  dollars." 

Herb  fingered  a  baby's  toy  he  picked  from  the 
floor.  He  dropped  it  a  couple  of  times  and  picked 
it  up  again. 

"Jack,  I  got  an  idea  I'll  do  a  little  traveling"  he 
said.  "I  don't  mean  just  down  to  New  York,  and 
back.  I  mean  some  real  travelin'  somewheres. 
Things  has  got  pretty  well  snarled  up  here.  I  ain't 
got  the  stomach  to  try  to  straighten  'em  out.  I'm 
tired,  Jack.  I  want  a  change  o'  scene  and  a  rest." 

"Yes." 

"I've  done  the  best  I  could  by  Mibb.  My 
conscience  don't  hurt  me  none  on  that  score.  And 
this  goin'  away  now  —  will  be  the  best  thing  I  ever 
did.  After  three  years  she'll  be  able  to  get  a  divorce 
for  desertion ;  there  ain't  no  other  reason  she  could 
get  one  for.  But,  Jack,  I  can't  go  away  until  — 
until  —  " 

"How  much  money  do  you  want?" 

"Two  hundred  aint  far  out  o'  the  way,  Jack." 

Jack's  heart  sank.  Two  hundred  dollars  with 
practically  no  prospect  of  getting  it  back  meant 
diminishing  the  legacy  to  six  hundred  and  fifty 
dollars. 

"That's  rather  steep,  Herb." 


208  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

"We  won't  argue  about  price  between  friends. 
I  said  two  hundred  warn't  far  out  o'  the  way  because 
she's  worth  that.  But  if  you  was  only  able  to  pay 
twenty-five  dollars,  Jack,  I'd  take  it  because  I  don't 
know  anybody  on  earth  I'd  want  to  have  her  besides 
you  and  Mary." 

"What  on  earth  are  you  talking  about?  Who's 
she  ?  Don't  you  want  to  borrow  money  ?" 

"No!  I  want  you  should  have  Monday- Washin' 
—  because  you'll  treat  her  as  I'd  o'  treated  her  if  I'd 
stayed  around.  I  can't  take  no  horse  and  rig  where 
I'm  goin' !" 

"Herbert!"  cried  Mary,  anxiously  entering  from 
the  kitchen.  "You're  not  going  to  do  anything 
foolish?" 

"No,  Mary.  I'm  goin'  to  do  the  wisest  thing  I've 
ever  done  in  my  life.  Just  goin'  away,  that's  all." 

"Herbert  —  you're  not  going  to  —  to  — " 

"Yes,  I'm  goin'  to  part  with  Monday- Washin'. 
And  I  want  to  know  you  folks  have  got  her.  It  ain't 
the  cash ;  it's  you  takin'  care  o'  her  until  she  dies  that 
I  want  to  remember.  I've  had  some  nice  rides  be 
hind  Monday- Washin',  Mary." 

Like  a  flash  Mary's  thoughts  fled  back  to  the  night 
when  her  stepfather  had  assaulted  her  and  how  she 
had  first  come  to  Paris  behind  the  little  animal ;  the 
ride  with  Herbert  one  Sunday  afternoon  in  the 
autumn ;  the  day  in  the  office  when  Mibb  had  paraded 
her  finery  and  Mary  had  wished  that  Monday- 
Washing  might  have  been  hers  —  to  drive  over  the 
azure  hills  and  far  away. 

"Yes,  Herbert.  Only  we  don't  really  need  a 
horse,  unless  —  unless  —  " 

The  husband  and  wife  exchanged  glances. 

"Yes?" 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  209 

'  "Unless  we  should  move  from  here  out  to  the  edge 
of  town  where  there's  room  for  the  boys  to  grow. 
Our  place  here  is  getting  somewhat  cramped.  Jack 
would  probably  need  a  horse  to  drive  back  and 
forth." 

"If  I  didn't  need  a  little  money  I'd  give  him  to 
you.  But  I  do  need  —  a  little  money  — " 

"Herb,"  declared  the  husband,  "would  you  listen 
to  a  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  for  the  mare,  harness 
and  buggy?" 

"She's  yourn,"  Herb  answered  without  hesitation. 


CHAPTER 

MABEL  TRUMAN,  NEE  HENDERSON,  COMES  BACK  TO 
PARIS  IN  A  HIGH  HUFF,  AND  GOES  BACK  TO  NEW 
YORK  WITH  A  BIG  IDEA. 

IT  was  a  different  Mabel  Truman,  nbe  Henderson, 
who  came  back  to  Paris  two  years  later.  Mibb  had 
matured  in  those  years  of  absence.  Maybe  it  had 
been  the  people  she  had  met,  the  places  she  had 
frequented,  the  wider  horizons  or  the  removal  of  all 
horizons,  that  was  responsible.  She  had  gone  away 
a  cheap  country-town  spitfire  covered  with  the 
veneer  of  easy  money.  She  came  back  polished  but 
not  subdued,  cultured  but  not  refined,  sophisticated 
but  sadly  lacking  a  sense  of  humor. 

Naturally  she  had  heard  about  the  bankruptcy, 
for  the  money  had  stopped  coming  from  Herbert. 
But  she  was  not  persuaded  that  the  whole  catastrophe 
was  not  a  sharp  lawyer's  trick  which  some  scheming 
parties  somewhere  had  succeeded  in  putting  over  on 
provincial,  easy-going  Herb,  and  back  she  had  come 
to  "see  about  it." 

She  was  stouter  than  when  she  had  gone  away. 
Her  dress  was  less  conspicuous  and  showed  better 
taste.  But  there  were  tiny  crowsfeet  in  the  corners 
of  her  eyes  and  the  faintest  of  faint  wrinkles  com 
mencing  to  show  in  her  neck,  and  she  gravitated 
toward  men  and  told  them  her  troubles  as  naturally 
as  a  brook  seeks  the  river  and  the  river  the  sea. 
No  one  in  Paris  recalls  a  single  instance  where  Mibb 


211 

took  a  woman  into  her  confidence  or  sought  her 
sympathy.  But  she  hadn't  been  in  town  two  hours 
before  two  strange  drummers  in  the  Whitney  House 
were  patting  her  hand  and  old  man  Ezekial's  boy, 
who  lived  summers  in  the  big  house  on  Preston  Hill, 
was  thanking  the  Lord  that  the  town  had  turned  up 
a  live  one  at  last. 

Mabel  visited  Judge  Farmer  first  and  met  with 
such  an  icy  reception  that  she  came  to  Sam  Hod  with 
tears  of  mortification  and  rage  in  her  eyes  and  de 
manded  the  price  of  space  in  the  Telegraph  so  she 
could  say  publicly  in  print  just  what  she  thought  of 
our  leading  attorney  and  banker. 

Sam  got  her  quieted  down  after  a  fashion,  during 
which  procedure  he  had  difficulty  to  avoid  Mibb 
weeping  on  his  shoulder,  and  explained  to  her  the  law 
of  libel  and  how  a  paper  and  not  an  individual  con 
tributor  was  held  responsible  for  any  such  deliberate 
indiscretion.  Then  with  eyes  snapping  and  a  very 
great  deal  of  pompous  and  self-important  fidgeting, 
she  listened  while  Sam  narrated  as  diplomatically 
as  possible  the  vicissitudes  of  the  carriage  works 
under  Herb's  incompetent  management. 

"I  made  the  mistake  of  my  life,"  Mibb  declared, 
"when  I  went  away.  I  should  have  had  the  brains 
to  stay  here  and  personally  take  charge  of  the 
carriage  work  myself.  What  I  cannot  understand 
is  this  :  What  has  become  of  all  Herbert's  money  ?" 

"I  guess  what  he  didn't  send  you  to  New  York  or 
Florida  or  abroad,  was  lost  by  inefficiency  and  dis 
honesty  at  the  factory,"  Sam  replied.  "Anyhow,  the 
supply  has  stopped,  Mabel.  You've  got  to  make 
up  your  mind  to  that." 

"Of  course  I'll  get  what's  left.  That  should  be 
something." 


212  THE   GREATER  GLORY 

"What's  left!" 

"After  the  bills  are  paid,  I  mean." 

"My  dear  girl,  Judge  Farmer  tells  me  that  the 
effects  won't  enable  the  referee  to  pay  more  than 
twenty  cents  on  the  dollar." 

"But  I,  as  his  wife,  also  have  a  claim  !" 

"  Certainly  not  —  at  least  not  on  the  business. 
It  was  a  corporation,  you  know,  although  Herbert 
owned  nearly  all  the  stock.  All  there  is  in  the 
business  goes  to  satisfy  the  creditors,  and  I  under 
stand  that  what  Herbert  personally  owned  he  turned 
into  cash  before  the  assignment." 

"He  was  rich  !"  retorted  Mabel. 

"Not  so  rich  as  most  of  the  town  imagined,  You 
made  a  poor  bet,  Mibb,  when  you  got  it  into  your 
head  you'd  married  a  gold  mine." 

"But  where  is  the  man?     Has  he  deserted  me?" 

"He  went  away  one  night  about  two  months  ago ; 
no  one  saw  him  go ;  no  one  knows  where  he  is.  Poor 
Herb  !  He  had  been  drinking  heavily." 

"Poor  Herb  —  fiddlesticks!  A  weak  character 
always  takes  to  drink.  What  I  want  to  know  is, 
what's  to  become  of  me?  I  haven't  had  a  remit 
tance  for  two  months.  The  last  one  was  only  a 
hundred  and  fifty  dollars  —  ' 

"That  must  have  been  the  cash  he  got  for  the 
mare,"  mused  Sam. 

"The  mare?    And  that  isn't  mine  ?     Who  has  it?" 

"The  Purses  bought  it." 

"  The  Purses  ?  Oh,  yes,  I  believe  I  remember ;  the 
young  couple  with  such  a  disgusting  proclivity  for 
babies.  Aiid  they  bought  it !  You're  sure  ?  Be 
cause  if  Herb  simply  gave  it  to  them,  they're  going  to 
find  that  Herb's  wife  is  still  in  existence  and  not  to  be 
cast  aside  financially  like  an  old  glove." 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  213 

"They  bought  it  all  right,  and  riding  around  in  it 
with  the  space  in  front  of  them  stuffed  with  small 
boys  is  the  first  recreation  they've  had  come  into 
their  lives  since  they  were  married." 

"I'm  not  interested  in  the  recreation  of  the  Purses  ! 
My  husband  had  altogether  too  much  to  do  with 
Mary  Purse.  If  I  thought  there  was  a  chance  of 
bringing  suit  against  Mary  Purse  and  getting  any 
thing  for  the  alienation  of  my  husband's  affections 
—  they're  doing  that  now  in  the  best  circles  —  I'd 
have  the  papers  filed  so  quickly  that  —  " 

"And  not  a  lawyer  in  town  would  take  the  case ! 
Mabel,  you  are  simply  ridiculous." 

"But  I've  got  to  have  money.  If  Herbert  has 
deserted  me  I've  still  got  to  live  somehow  —  " 

"Get  a  job  and  go  to  work." 

"A  job!  Work!  Me!  After  the  people  I've 
associated  with ;  the  set  I  move  in  —  " 

"I  wouldn't  let  that  worry  me ;  no  one  here  in  town 
is  the  wiser." 

"Now  you  are  ridiculous!"  the  woman  cried. 
Suddenly  the  truth  dawned  on  her  and  she  cried : 
"I'm  a  widow  —  without  a  widow's  privileges! 
What  shall  I  do  —  oh,  what  shall  I  do  ?  If  I  could 
only  get  my  hands  on  that  Herbert  Truman  ;  if  I  only 
could ! " 

"You've  had  your  hands  on  him  for  quite  a  spell 
and  squeezed  him  dry.  Better  let  it  go  at  that, 
Mabel,"  and  Sam  hitched  his  chair  up  under  him, 
lighted  his  pipe  and  prepared  to  go  on  with  his 
interrupted  editorial. 

"I  plainly  see,"  she  declared  icily,  "that  I  haven't 
a  friend  in  this  town." 

"There's  no  especial  reason  why  you  should  have, 
Mibb.  You  haven't  exerted  yourself  greatly  to 


214  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

cultivate  friendship.  There  is  a  very  arbitrary  law 
about  such  things,  you  know." 

"Oh  well,"  she  snapped  haughtily,  "I  dare  say  I 
know  a  few  gentlemen  friends  who  will  not  be 
above  helping  me  temporarily." 

"I  dare  say  you  do,  Mibb  !  "  grunted  Sam  grimly. 

The  door  closed  after  the  woman  and  Sam  said  a 
bad  word. 

It  rained  that  afternoon,  —  a  sudden  thunder 
shower  that  pelted  huge  drops  like  marbles  on  to 
the  dust-covered  foliage,  made  Main  Street  mer 
chants  hustle  their  sidewalk  displays  indoors  with 
frantic  energy  and  sent  the  luckless  townspeople 
caught  on  the  streets  into  whatever  shelters  were  at 
hand. 

Mabel  Truman  in  a  lacy  creation,  embroidered 
parasol,  bare  head,  and  fingers  ablaze  with  rings, 
chanced  to  be  strolling  down  Union  Street  meditating 
hotly  on  her  predicament  when  the  shower  came  up. 
Casting  frantically  about  for  a  place  of  shelter,  she 
noted  the  deep  portico  of  the  Baptist  church  entrance. 
She  made  the  protection  just  as  the  rain  descended  in 
a  sudden  cloud.  At  the  top  of  the  steps,  the  parasol 
obstructing  the  way,  she  bumped  into  a  person  who 
had  taken  refuge  there  a  moment  before,  —  a  woman 
with  an  infant. 

"I  beg  your  pardon!"  cried  Mibb  in  her  most 
adroit  voice.  And  then  she  stiffened. 

"Mabel ! "  cried  Mary  Purse.   "You  ! " 

"I  was  not  aware  you  were  here  or  I  should  have 
found  a  place  from  the  rain  elsewhere,"  the  grass 
widow  declared. 

Mary  looked  at  her  finery  wistfully.  Then  the 
dark  eyes  of  Jack  Purse's  wife  sought  the  other 
much-massaged  face  and  lingered  there. 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  215 

"Why  do  you  say  that,  Mabel?"  she  asked. 
"What  have  you  against  me  ?" 

"You  ask  me  that !  " 

"I'm  sure  it's  nothing  I've  done  intentionally." 

Mibb  tapped  her  toe  impatiently  on  the  flagstone 
floor. 

"No;  I  dare  say  you  didn't  know  any  better. 
You've  been  tied  down  to  this  town  all  your  life ;  how 
could  you ! " 

Mary  did  not  reply.  The  shower  increased. 
Great  sweeps  of  rain  clouded  the  atmosphere ;  gutters 
were  choked,  limbs  of  trees  broke  in  the  violence  of 
the  wind  that  swept  a  fine  spray  into  the  portico 
where  the  women  waited.  And  while  the  thunder 
rattled  and  clacked  and  played  about  the  upper  air, 
Mibb  held  her  head  high  and  tapped  her  toe  impa 
tiently. 

"I'm  sure,  Mabel,  if  there's  anything  I'm  respon 
sible  for,  I'm  willing  to  apologize.  You  know  - 

"You'd  better  !"  snapped  Mibb. 

The  apologetic,  threadbare  look,  the  gentle  wist- 
f ulness  of  the  other  woman,  somewhat  touched 
Mabel  and  after  a  time  she  condescended  to  look 
around,  stare  her  over  and  allow  her  very  superior 
eyes  to  rest  on  the  infant. 

"I  declare!"  she  said.  "Hasn't  that  young  one 
grown  a  bit  in  the  last  four  years?" 

"This  isn't  the  baby  you  saw  at  my  house.  This 
is  Richard  —  my  fourth." 

"Your  what?" 

"My  fourth.  Fred  and  Theodore,  the  twins,  born 
while  you  were  in  —  Europe.  This  one  was  born 
four  months  ago.  We  call  him  The  Dickie-Bird." 

"My  Gawd!"  cried  Mibb.  "And  your  husband 
is  in  business  by  this  time,  I  suppose." 


216  THE   GREATER  GLORY 

"No;  he's  —  he's  —  still  foreman  in  the  news 
paper  office.  There  hasn't  been  exactly  the  business 
chance  come  along  —  " 

"I  know!  Some  men  just  simply  haven't  it  in 
them  to  get  ahead.  Where  are  you  living?" 

''In  the  same  place.  But  I  don't  think  we'll  be 
there  much  longer  because  the  man  who  owns  the 
property  is  going  to  sell  for  a  building  site.  Jack 
and  I  are  thinking  awful  seriously  of  buying  the  old 
place  on  Cobb  Hill  for  a  home.  It's  country  out 
there  and  plenty  of  room  for  the  boys  to  play  and 
grow.  Jack  could  drive  back  and  forth  mornings 
and  evenings,  you  know.  We  —  we  —  bought  your 
horse." 

"So  I  have  heard,"  commented  Mibb  coldly. 
"But  I  thought  you  were  poor !  You  talk  of  buying 
places  as  if  —  " 

"O,  but  I  had  a  legacy ;  not  much  but  still  a  legacy. 
My  Uncle  Josiah  in  Chicago  died  and  left  us  over 
five  thousand  dollars." 

"How  long  ago?" 

"About  three  years." 

"I  dare  say  it's  spent  by  this  time.  I  never  saw 
folks  who  were  baby-crazy  who  had  the  knack  of 
hanging  on  to  money." 

"It  —  isn't  —  all  spent.  Anyhow,  that's  why 
Jack  and  I  are  talking  about  getting  what's  left  into 
some  sort  of  real  estate  before  the  whole  legacy 
becomes  exhausted.  The  bank's  never  been  able  to 
dispose  of  the  Wheeler  house  and  property  because 
of  what  happened  there.  We  can  buy  it  for  the 
mortgage  and  interest.  We've  got  money  enough  to 
do  that  and  I'm  beginning  to  think  it's  a  wise  move. 
I'm  —  looking  for  my  happiness  —  in  other  ways  — 
than  money." 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  217 

"What  do  you  know  about  what  happiness  money 
will  buy,"  demanded  Mibb  " — you  that's  hardly 
been  beyond  the  skyline  in  your  life?  Nonsense!  " 

"I  don't,"  returned  Mary,  "and  what  I  don't 
know  won't  hurt  me." 

"Poor  little  country  bumpkin !  Poor  little  fool !  " 
declared  Mibb.  She  wished  the  storm  would  end  so 
she  could  leave.  It  was  a  most  disconcerting  pre 
dicament. 

But  Mary  pretended  not  to  be  disparaged. 

"How  are  things  going  with  you,  Mibb?"  she 
asked  politely. 

"Beautifully,  thank  you." 

"You're  still  singing,  I  suppose.  You  had  a 
beautiful  voice,  I  remember,  when  we  worked  in  the 
office  together.  I  remember  very  often  the  night 
you  sang  between  the  acts  of  the  little  local  talent 
play.  How  very  long  ago  that  seems,  doesn't  it? 
And  your  voice  should  have  improved  much  with 
time." 

"I  studied  under  the  best  masters  while  abroad," 
Mibb  replied.  It  was  a  falsehood.  She  had  not 
raised  her  voice  while  abroad  above  an  ordinary  tone 
except  to  hold  up  her  end  of  an  altercation  with  her 
mother.  But  it  sounded  well,  this  "best-masters" 
business. 

"You  are  fortunate;  it  will  stand  you  in  good 
stead  now." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Since  Herbert  —  well,  you  know." 

Yes,  Mibb  knew.  She  knew  all  too  well.  But 
she  was  furious  to  have  it  "thrown"  at  her  by 
homely  little  Mary  Purse  in  her  last  year's  hat  and 
coat  with  the  baggy  sleeves. 

"I'll    thank   you    to    mind  your    own    business. 


218  THE   GREATER  GLORY 

You  have  financial  troubles  of  your  own,  I  under 
stand,  which  should  be  quite  sufficient  for  an  ordinary 
person  without  interesting  yourself  in  mine.  I  see 
the  rain  is  letting  up.  I'll  say  good-afternoon." 

Despite  the  w^d  wet,  she  raised  her  creamy  para 
sol  and  was  gon£. 

Mary,  who  watched  her  picking  her  dainty  way 
among  the  broken  boughs  and  sticks  and  miniature 
washouts,  declared : 

"Well,  one  thing's  certain,  Dicky -Bird,  we  don't 
look  quite  so  old  and  burned  out  as  she's  com 
mencing  to  look  for  all  of  our  craze  after  babies ! " 

As  for  Mibb,  she  went  down  that  devastated  street 
with  a  Big  Thought  whirling  in  her  head. 

Mary  Purse  had  given  her  an  idea  —  a  great  idea ! 


CHAPTER  IX 

BACK  IN  THE  OLD  HOUSE  ON  THE  COBB  HILL  ROAD, 
THE  PURSES  SETTLE  DOWN  TO  THE  DAY  TO  DAY 
EXPERIENCES  OF  PLAIN  PEOPLE  WHICH  MAKES 
JACK  PURSE  A  FRANTIC  MAN. 

IT  was  about  the  time  we  put  in  our  linotype  that 
Jack  and  Mary  bought  the  old  Wheeler  place  out  on 
Cobb  Hill.  The  man  was  plainly  worried  that  he 
was  never  going  to  draw  more  than  three  dollars  a 
day  in  our  office  and  three  dollars  a  day  —  with 
rents  going  up  in  the  village  —  was  not  sufficient  to 
raise  the  live-wire  youngsters  who  were  beginning 
to  demonstrate  that  they  were  real  boys.  The  day 
came  when  his  landlord  gave  formal  notice  that  the 
place  was  to  be  sold  for  a  business  block  site,  and  on 
that  day  he  and  Mary  took  the  remaining  money  out 
of  the  savings  bank  and  the  place  passed  back  into 
the  hands  of  the  girl  who  had  left  it  so  sadly  a  decade 
before. 

The  first  home  on  Pleasant  Street  which  had  stood 
for  so  much  to  them,  was  broken  up.  Ed  Dickinson 
drove  over  from  Foxboro  with  his  big  two-horse  van 
one  spring  day  and  moved  them.  The  musty  old 
house  was  scrubbed  and  renovated  and  aired  and 
painted.  The  bitter-sweet  sorrow  at  leaving  the 
little  tenement  on  Pleasant  Street  was  only  offset 
for  the  woman  by  the  satisfaction  of  the  home-coming, 
-  back  to  the  old  farm  behind  the  maple  trees  near 
the  top  of  Cobb  Hill. 


THE   GREATER   GLORY 

"I  thought  —  when  we  moved  from  Pleasant 
Street  at  all  —  that  it  was  to  be  so  very  different," 
Jack  complained  bitterly.  "I  thought  it  was  rather 
going  to  be  like  the  Holland  place.  After  all,  it's 
only  a  lonely  old  farm  — 

"But  the  boys  —  they  will  have  their  childhood 
in  the  country,  and  after  all,  there's  no  blessing  equal 
to  that,  Jack." 

Jack  knew  it,  but  he  refused  to  be  consoled. 

"I've  got  to  do  something!"  he  cried  bitterly. 
"I've  got  to  prove  I'm  not  a  failure!  Damn  the 
newspaper  business.  It  takes  and  takes  and  never 
gives  !  It  ties  you  down  and  squeezes  the  best  that's 
in  you  out  for  some  other  person's  profit.  Why  did 
I  ever  learn  the  trade  of  a  printer  ?" 

But  if  Jack  realized  he  was  headed  toward  failure, 
Mary  too  must  have  looked  into  the  future  after  two 
more  children  —  six  in  all  —  had  come  to  her,  and 
had  it  brought  home  to  her  that  she  had  made  the 
same  mistake  that  her  mother  had  made  before  her : 
that  life  would  be  but  one  dreary  day  of  years  —  so 
much  cooking,  so  much  dishwashing,  so  much  mend 
ing  and  cleaning  and  hanging  out  of  clothes.  Some 
day  death  would  overtake  her.  There  would  be  a 
plain  average  American  small-town  funeral  with  the 
relatives  attending  and  the  church  choir  rendering 
an  anthem  and  a  young  local  pastor  not  old  enough 
yet,  nor  wise  enough,  to  understand  the  hearts  of 
human  beings,  who  would  mouth  conventional  fu 
neral  phrases  and  look  gloomy  and  be  more  or  less 
thankful  when  the  ordeal  was  over.  There  would  be 
a  six-inch  obituary  down  in  a  corner  of  our  paper, 
perhaps  sandwiched  between  a  report  of  the  county 
treasurer  and  a  patent  medicine  advertisement. 
There  would  be  a  plain  white  stone  out  in  the  ceme- 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  221 

tery  on  the  hill,  soon  forgotten  by  all  but  a  lonely  man 
and  God.  It  would  be  marked  with  the  words : 
"Mary,  Beloved  Wife  of  John  Purse.  Born  Sept. 
15th,  1861.  Died,  April  8th,  19—."  Life,  like  her 
wedding  day,  like  the  dreams  which  she  had  dreamed, 
would  have  passed.  The  grass  and  the  briar  bloom 
would  grow  up  around  the  headstone.  She  would 
be  forgotten.  Oh,  the  heart-rendering  hopelessness 
of  it. 

But,  in  so  far  as  any  of  us  can  recall,  in  so  far  as 
any  of  the  folk  in  our  town  knew,  those  who  came  in 
contact  with  her  after  her  sixth  and  final  baby  was 
born,  never  heard  a  word  of  complaint  or  bitterness 
from  her  lips.  The  features  which  had  made  her 
once  the  prettiest  girl  in  Paris  took  on  deep  dull  lines 
of  work  and  worry  and  motherly  anxiety.  She  was 
growing  rapidly  into  a  plain,  middle-aged  woman 
with  nothing  ahead  but  the  successful  manhood  of 
her  boys,  like  a  million  other  wives  of  average  men 
all  over  America  tonight. 

Mrs.  Hod  drove  out  to  see  her  one  afternoon  and 
stayed  to  supper.  After  supper  they  went  up  to  the 
front  bedroom  —  Mary's  old  room  under  the  eaves  — 
to  hunt  up  some  dress  patterns.  The  moon  came  up 
while  they  were  there  and  the  frogs  down  in  the 
marsh  began  their  piping.  It  was  a  dreamy,  beauti 
ful  hour. 

Mary  grew  suddenly  silent.  From  her  place  in 
the  rocker  by  the  window  Mrs.  Hod  glanced  across 
in  the  deep  deep  shadow  to  where  Mary  sat  on  the 
bed.  The  girl  suddenly  began  sobbing.  Then  to 
Mrs.  Hod's  surprise,  Mary  Purse  leaned  across  and 
kneeled  suddenly  down  with  her  head  in  Mrs.  Hod's 
lap.  There  she  wept  convulsively. 

"Mother,  mother!"  Mary  cried.     "At  least  he's 


222  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

kind  to  me ;  he  loves  me.  But  I  understand,  mother. 
I  understand ! " 

"I  'spose  you've  heard  about  Mibb  Truman," 
said  Mrs.  Hod,  attempting  to  get  the  girl's  mind  on  to 
another  subject. 

"What  about  her?" 

"I  understand  she's  gone  on  the  stage  —  the  con 
cert  stage  —  singin'.  The  Mathers  went  to  New 
York  last  week  and  looked  her  up.  She  wasn't  at 
all  nice  to  'em.  But  they  learned  that  some  of  her 
gentlemen  friends  down  there  have  backed  her 
financially  and  that  wonderful  voice  o'  hers  seems  to 
be  doin'  the  rest.  She  always  did  have  a  wonderful 
voice.  You  remember  it?" 

"Yes,"  said  Mary  dully.  She  was  plainly  not  in 
terested  in  the  Henderson  girl's  fortunes,  having 
forsooth  her  own  pitiful  fortunes  to  occupy  her 
mind. 

Mrs.  Hod  comforted  her  and  after  a  while  Mary 
arose  and  wiped  her  eyes. 

"I'm  sorry,  Mrs.  Hod.  Once  in  a  while  I  feel 
weak  and  helpless.  What  I  need,  I  suppose,  is  some 
real  sorrow  to  make  me  strong." 

"There's  trouble  enough  comes  to  us  in  life  without 
wishing  for  it,  dear.  You're  all  right.  You're  only 
worrying  over  Jack  because  he  doesn't  get  into 
business." 

"No;  I'm  worrying  over  Jack  because  Jack  is 
worrying  that  he  doesn't  get  into  business.  He's 
afraid  to  make  the  break,  Mrs.  Hod.  He's  afraid  to 
leave  his  sure  job  for  a  brilliant  uncertainty.  And 
our  capital  is  gone  now,  you  know  I  paid  the  bills 
with  the  largest  part  of  it  and  the  rest  I  put  into  buy 
ing  this  house  so  we  could  at  least  be  sure  of  a  roof 
over  our  heads.  That  makes  Jack  timid  about 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  223 

taking  chances;  he's  got  the  responsibilities  of  so 
many  on  him." 

"Has  he  had  many  chances?" 

"Yes ;  there's  been  the  Red  Front  grocery  which  he 
felt  he  couldn't  swing  because  he  didn't  have  the 
capital ;  there's  been  the  newspaper  at  Saugus  and 
the  job-printing  business  that  Daddy  Joe  finally 
bought  and  that  I  understand  he's  doing  well  in. 
There's  been  Jim  Galloway's  rustless  fire-screen 
business  and  the  sash-and-blind  mill.  All  of  them 
were  good  businesses  and  would  have  made  us  fairly 
well-fixed  in  time.  But  most  of  them  needed  money 
—  quite  a  lot  of  it  —  and  somehow  —  the  boys  have 
taken  most  of  our  money." 

"I  know  how  it  is,  dear.  It's  too  bad  Jack  couldn't 
have  found  something  before  so  many  babies  came. 
Not,"  she  added,  "that  I'm  saying  a  word  against 
them ;  they're  beautiful  boys  —  there  aren't  six  boys 
in  the  whole  world  any  beautif  uller  —  excepting  three 
that  I  happen  to  have  down  at  the  Hod  place  on 
Walnut  Street  in  Paris.  But  still — it's  unfortunate." 

"Jack's  especially  wild  just  now  because  —  you 
won't  tell  a  soul  will  you,  Mrs.  Hod  ?" 

"  Certainly  not,  dear."  She  stroked  the  black  hair 
just  beginning  to  fleck  with  gray.  "Haven't  I  and 
Mr.  Hod  proved  that  we're  your  friends  ?" 

"Well,  then,  Jack's  especially  wild  just  now  because 
he  thinks  he's  discovered  something  on  the  Osgood 
farm  that  may  prove  valuable  —  a  sort  of  ore  —  and 
he  can  buy  the  land  for  a  thousand  dollars.  Only  he 
hasn't  got  the  thousand  dollars  and  even  if  he  had  it, 
he  lacks  the  money  to  develop  it." 

"What  kind  of  ore,  dear?" 

"Some  kind  of  yellow  dirt  that's  in  great  demand 
just  now  for  paint.  Ochre  —  isn't  that  it  ?  Yes  ! 


224  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

There's  a  huge  bed  of  it  on  the  Osgood  place  along  the 
South  Fork  of  Sheppard's  brook.  Jack  had  it  sent 
away  and  analyzed  and  then  got  a  figure  on  the  Os 
good  place  because  the  Osgoods  want  to  sell  and  move 
to  Montpelier.  But  it's  all  money  —  money  - 
money  —  again.  And,  well,  there's  our  money, 
Mrs.  Hod,  out  there  in  the  moonlight  kicking  their 
heels  on  the  corncrib.  Hear  them?" 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Hod,  "Sam  and  J  have  got  quite 
a  bit  of  change  tied  up  in  the  same  way.  I  know 
how  you  feel,  Mary.  I've  been  there  !  " 

It  was  true  that  Jack  Purse  at  last  had  tumbled 
on  to  something  of  business  value.  A  huge  ochre 
bed  by  some  freak  of  nature  had  been  deposited  along 
the  south  fork  of  Sheppard's  brook  where  it  flowed 
across  the  Osgood  place.  Old  man  Osgood  cared 
nothing  about  ochre  and  had  no  money  to  develop  it 
or  small  ambition  to  place  value  on  what  his  farm 
contained.  He  wanted  to  sell  and  move  down  to 
Montpelier  with  his  eldest  son  and  go  into  the  harness 
business.  If  Jack  really  wanted  it,  he  could  have  a 
six-month  option  on  the  property  for  a  hundred 
dollars,  because  old  man  Osgood  had  as  soon  stay  on 
his  farm  for  that  last  summer  as  anywhere. 

Jack  had  a  hundred  dollars.  He  bought  that  op 
tion.  He  disclosed  to  Sam  Hod  what  he  had  done. 
We  think  he  had  an  idea  for  a  time,  that  Sam  Hod 
might  go  on  his  note  and  help  him  raise  the  money, 
and  so  indeed  Sam  might  have  done  had  not  Jim 
Thome  started  a  rival  newspaper  in  Paris  that  year 
and  given  us  a  lot  of  trouble  across  the  street.  It 
took  every  cent  we  could  buy,  beg,  borrow  or  steal,  to 
keep  the  Telegraph  above  water  that  summer  and 
fall,  and  the  chill  days  of  autumn  came  with  Jack  as 
handicapped  and  discouraged  as  ever. 


THE   GREATER  GLORY  225 

One  night  in  early  November  he  came  home 
through  the  first  fall  of  snow  with  a  grim  white  look 
on  his  face.  Mary  stood  by  the  stove  frying  pota 
toes  for  the  evening  meal.  She  looked  up  with  a 
faithful  smile  on  her  plain  features  as  he  entered, 
but  he  hardly  noticed  her.  He  went  to  the  sink 
and  washed  and  stood  for  an  unusual  time  drying 
his  hands  on  the  roller  towel. 

The  smile  died  from  Mary's  face  as  Jack  ignored 
her.  There  was  a  sudden  pain  in  her  heart.  She 
had  not  minded  —  much  —  when  he  had  left  off 
meeting  her  after  the  day's  work  with  a  caress.  But 
to  be  ignored  —  after  a  lonely  day  with  the  thought 
less  youngsters  —  it  brought  the  fear  of  her  mother's 
words  into  her  soul  and  her  mother's  prophecy. 
She  burned  her  hand  on  the  hot  griddle  but  she 
did  not  cry  out.  She  put  the  stinging  patch  of  flesh 
to  her  lips  for  a  moment  and  then  shoved  the  griddle 
to  the  rear  of  the  stove.  The  last  baby,  Dexter 
Farrington  Purse,  cried  suddenly  from  the  inner 
room,  a  wail  of  anguish  that  sent  the  mother  flying 
to  his  side.  Tn  a  moment  she  was  back.  But  Jack 
had  been  watching  her  as  he  dried  his  hands  at  the 
towel  and  he  suddenly  came  over. 

"Mary,"  he  said  thickly,  "you  have  it  pretty 
hard,  don't  you  ?  First  one  thing  and  then  another 
—  all  day  long.  It  wasn't  a  life  like  this  we  were 
thinking  of  living  together  at  thirty-five,  was  it, 
Mary?" 

He  made  her  relinquish  the  griddle  and  the  dish 
into  which  the  contents  were  being  emptied.  He 
turned  her  about  and  took  her  in  his  arms. 

"Mary,"  he  said,  lifting  her  face  up  toward  his, 
"you  never  say  anything ;  you  never  complain  ;  day 
after  day  you  stay  out  here  in  the  country  quiet, 


226  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

and  keep  plugging  away  —  the  wife  of  a  poor  printer 
who  can't  seem  to  get  ahead.  Oh,  Mary  girl,  I  love 
you ! " 

"I'm  looking  for  my  pleasure  in  life  in  other  ways, 
Jack,"  she  replied  softly.  "I  guess,  Jack,  I've 
changed  my  standards,  else  I'd  given  out  long 
ago." 

"I  may  not  say  a  lot,  Mary  dear,  but  —  but  —  I 
haven't  forgotten  and  I  —  I  —  appreciate  — " 

He  drew  her  closer  to  him  and  crushed  her  suddenly. 
In  the  dining  room  Richard,  age  eight,  was  busy  on 
the  red  tablecloth  with  Frederick,  age  eleven,  dis 
emboweling  a  clock  which  would  never  run  again. 
Jack  in  his  stocking  feet  would  later  find  many  of 
the  cogwheels  on  the  carpet.  Richard  chanced  to 
glance  up  and  was  hypnotized. 

"Lookit ! "  he  exclaimed  to  his  brothers  watching 
the  process  of  clock  surgery,  "paw's  kissin'  maw!  " 

The  small  Templeton  boys  came  in  after  supper  to 
play  until  eight  o'clock  with  the  Purse  young  ones. 
Mary  sent  them,  ruined  clock,  muddy  boots,  hand- 
fuls  of  cogwheels  and  all  —  into  the  back  kitchen. 

"What's  the  matter,  Jack,"  she  asked  her  husband 
when  the  boys  were  out  of  earshot.  "Is  it  the 
ochre  option  that's  worrying  you  ?" 

"Yes.  Old  man  Osgood  was  in  Paris  this  after 
noon  shopping.  He  said  Joel  Sibley  has  made  him  a 
cash  offer  for  the  farm  and  wanted  to  know  if  I  cared 
to  exercise  my  option." 

"Jack,"  said  the  wife,  "you  mustn't  make  yourself 
ill  over  this  business.  You're  half -dead  now  with 
worry  and  overwork  and  keeping  such  hours  as 
you've  been  doing  lately." 

He  rubbed  his  hands  over  tired  eyes  —  eyes  that 
felt  like  two  burnt  holes  in  a  woolen  blanket. 


THE   GREATER  GLORY  227 

"I  know  it,"  he  admitted.  "But  this  ochre 
bed  looks  like  such  a  good  chance,  and  I've  read  up  so 
much  on  it  and  know  just  how  to  go  about  doing  it  — 
working  it  up  into  a  big  business  —  that  I'm  about 
crazy  to  see  it  slip  away  as  other  business  proposi 
tions  have  had  to  go  by  the  board  because  I  didn't 
have  the  money. " 

"Jack,  this  time  why  do  you  let  it  go  by  the  board  ? 
Why  don't  you  raise  the  money  ?  " 

"But  how  can  I  raise  the  money  when  I've  got 
nothing  to  raise  it  on?  A  mortgage  on  this  place 
wouldn't  net  two  hundred  dollars.  The  bank  had 
one  stiff  lesson  with  it  —  " 

"I  mean  if  you  can't  raise  the  money  out  of  your 
own  resources,  use  some  one  else's." 

"Who  for  instance?  I  did  think  of  asking  Sam 
Hod  —  " 

"Jack,  I've  been  thinking ;  why  don't  you  go  see 
Mr.  Ezekial  ?  You  know  who  I  mean,  —  the  old  man 
who  comes  up  to  the  place  on  Preston  Hill  summers. 
He's  got  loads  of  cash ;  you  know  that." 

"And  knows  how  to  hang  on  to  it !"  declared  Jack 
grimly.  "What  chance  would  I  stand  going  up  to 
him  and  trying  to  interest  him  in  a  little  jelly-bean 
ochre  bed  like  this  when  he  could  buy  all  of  Foxboro 
and  Paris  put  together  and  never  miss  it  from  his 
account  ?  And  even  if  he  did  put  in  the  cash,  - 
even  if  I  did  interest  him,  —  how  could  I,  with 
nothing,  keep  control?" 

"I  don't  know.  But  I  don't  believe  old  man 
Ezekial  is  anything  like  what  gossip  paints  him. 
I  can't  understand  how  a  man  who  really  was  all 
that  people  claim  him  to  be  could  have  such  an  awful 
nice  daughter.  I've  met  Martha  Ezekial  several 
times  at  Ladies'  Aid  meetings,  you  know ;  she's  just 


228  THE   GREATER  GLORY 

common  and  ordinary  like  other  folks,  only  she's 
politer  and  kinder  and  softer  spoken  —  sort  of  finer 
grained." 

"She's  real  aristocracy,"  declared  Jack,  "to 
distinguish  from  Mibb  Truman's  brand." 

"Why  not  go  to  old  Mr.  Ezekial  and  tell  him 
honestly  just  what  you've  found  and  what  you  think 
you  could  do,  and  ask  him  to  assist  you  — " 

"Because,"  said  Jack,  "I'm  too  wise.  Because 
I  know  how  business  is  done  and  how  men  like  Old 
Zeke  —  as  they  call  him  —  are  pestered  to  death 
every  day  of  their  lives  with  industrial  propositions 
of  this  kind." 

"Jack,  dear,  you  don't  know  —  you  can't  be 
certain  —  until  you've  tried.  And  isn't  it  worth  — 
the  trial  ?" 

"The  cowardice  of  wisdom,  Mary,"  the  man  cried, 
leaning  forward  in  his  battered  Morris  chair,  "makes 
it  appear  ridiculous."  He  arose  angrily  and  paced 
the  floor. 

For  Jack  knew  that  deep  in  his  heart  he  lacked  the 
courage  to  go  up  to  Old  Zeke's  fine  home  on  Preston 
Hill  and  beard  the  old  money  bear  in  his  den  and  try 
to  put  across  any  such  proposition.  Part  of  his 
hesitation  might  have  been  the  cowardice  of  wisdom 
-  yes.  But  it  was  more  physical  courage  that 
detained  him. 

Mary  got  out  her  weekly  washing,  gathered  from 
the  clothes  lines  just  before  the  twilight  began  to 
spit  snow,  and  started  her  sprinkling,  her  ironing- 
board  across  two  chairs.  Jack  sat  in  the  Morris 
chair  beside  the  reading  table  under  the  dining- 
room  clock  and  tried  to  make  sense  out  of  the  news 
paper  he  had  that  day  printed  and  produced.  But 
he  could  not. 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  229 

The  Templeton  boys  and  three  of  his  own  young 
sters  had  secured  permission  to  carry  out  some  experi 
ment  in  the  side  bedroom  and  he  heard  the  dull 
drone  of  their  voices  and  the  shrill  declarations  and 
contentions  as  they  employed  themselves  after  the 
fashion  of  boys  in  that  final  hour  before  they  were 
called  to  go  to  bed. 

"Our  father  made  that !"  declared  Dexter  proudly 
referring  to  some  toy  or  implement  whose  identity 
Jack  could  not  determine. 

"Huh!"  retorted  one  of  the  small  Templeton 
boys,  "our  father  made  a  bigger  one  than  that  and 
it  had  six  sides  to  it,  too." 

"Your  father  ain't  half  so  wonderful  or  smart  as 
our  father  is.  Your  father's  only  a  farmer,  and  our 
father  makes  a  whole  newspaper  and  bosses  every 
body  all  over  the  place.  He's  the  most  wonderful 
man  in  the  world,  our  father  is ! "  Freddie  grew 
emotional.  "He  ain't  afraid  o'  nothin'  and  he  can 
do  anything.  He  can  lick  your  father  with  one  hand 
tied  behind  him  and  if  you  say  he  can't  I'll  do  you 
right  here  and  now  — " 

Jack  heard  no  more.  He  sprang  from  his  chair 
and  paced  the  floor.  His  boys  thought  him  the 
most  wonderful  man  in  the  world ;  the  man  who  could 
do  everything;  the  man  afraid  of  nothing.  And  he 
couldn't  raise  a  thousand  dollars  to  buy  an  ochre 
bed  estimated  to  be  worth  a  competency  ! 

"Jack!"  cried  his  wife.  "What  is  the  matter? 
Where  are  you  going  ?" 

"Crazy!"  he  retorted.  Pulling  down  his  hat  he 
passed  out  into  the  cold  raw  night. 

He  walked  in  the  darkness  of  early  evening  down  to 
the  ochre  beds.  They  were  covered  with  the  light 
blanket  of  snow  but  it  was  the  exertion  the  man 


230  THE   GREATER  GLORY 

wanted,  —  the  feeling  of  doing  something  beside 
sitting  helplessly  in  a  chair. 

Over  and  over  in  his  mind  he  turned  all  the  men 
who  were  likely  to  aid  him  in  developing  such  a 
business.  One  by  one  they  were  eliminated.  There 
was  Old  Zeke,  of  course,  but  the  proposition  of  Old 
Zeke  helping  out  was  nothing  but  the  wild  imagery 
of  a  wife's  business  ignorance.  What  should  he  do  ? 
What  should  he  do?  He  hated  himself  for  this 
weakness.  He  felt  tired  out,  worn  out,  played  out ! 
Yet  he  must  do  something.  He  must  not  let  his 
proposition  go  through  his  grasp.  There  might 
never  be  another  like  it ! 

He  must  have  walked  around  the  south  part 
of  the  Osgood  property  for  an  hour  in  the  falling 
snow  which  quickly  turned  to  slush.  Then  he  dragged 
his  tired  limbs  back  to  the  house.  He  opened  the 
door. 

He  was  startled  to  see  a  strange  woman  in  the 
kitchen.  It  was  Edith  Crosswell  from  the  Gilbert 
Mills  road.  She  sat  before  the  kitchen  stove  reading 
the  evening's  Telegraph. 

"Why,  —  where's  Mary?"  Jack  demanded. 

"Where  are  you?"  demanded  Edith.  She  was 
a  red-headed  girl  with  big  feet,  square  shoulders  and 
a  hard  mouth.  She  put  down  the  paper  and  sur 
veyed  him  critically.  "I  come  over  to  borrow  some 
yeast  because  Ma's  just  got  to  make  bread  to-mor 
row  if  we're  not  buried  under  fifty  feet  o'  snowdrift. 
'Edith,'  says  your  wife,  'you're  a  godsend.  Would 
you  look  after  the  young-uns  for  the  evenin'  while  I 
hitch  up  the  'orse  and  make  a  quick  trip  down  to 
Paris,'  says  she,  'It's  urgent,'  she  says." 

"To  Paris!"  gasped  Jack.  "Mary's  gone  to 
Paris  ?  At  this  time  of  night  ?  " 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  231 

"T'aint  eight  o'clock  yet  and  it  only  takes  an 
half  hour  to  drive  to  Paris.  She's  been  gone  half 
that  time  already." 

"Did  she  say  —  who  she  was  going  to  see  in 
Paris?" 

"No;  but  she  put  on  her  Sunday-go-to-meetin' 
bib-and-tucker." 

Jack  found  his  way  into  the  other  room  and  sank 
down,  wet  though  he  was,  into  the  Morris  chair. 
Mary  gone  to  Paris !  What  other  errand  could  she 
possibly  have  but  to  attempt  with  the  courage  of 
ignorance  what  he  with  his  cowardice  of  wisdom  had 
declared  impossible.  He  knew  that  old  man  Ezekial 
was  spending  the  Thanksgiving  holidays  at  his 
Preston  Hill  home.  Our  paper  a  few  nights  before 
had  said  so.  Mary  had  taken  their  dilemma  by  the 
horns.  She  had  gone  into  town  at  eight  o'clock 
of  a  miserable  night  to  meet  the  rich  man  and  plead 
for  capital  for  her  husband. 

Hot,  burning  shame  came  over  Jack  as  he  sat 
there.  What  a  small,  miserable  piece  of  masculine 
humanity  he  was,  anyhow !  What  a  failure  as  a 
husband  and  a  father  he  had  been.  Before  marriage 
he  had  courted  the  girl  with  fair  promises  and  golden 
predictions.  She  had  loved  him  because  of  his  am 
bition,  the  goals  which  he  had  set  for  himself.  And 
how  had  that  marriage  turned  out  ?  What  were  the 
fair  promises,  the  golden  predictions,  the  ambitions, 
the  goals,  —  what  but  words,  words,  words  ?  The 
ugly  fact  remained  that  despite  the  time  which  had 
passed,  despite  the  good  health  with  which  he  and 
Mary  had  been  blessed,  eleven  years  after  marriage 
found  him  in  the  same  job  he  had  held  a  decade 
before,  drawing  the  same  money,  content  perforce 
with  the  same  kind  of  home,  as  far  as  ever  from  the 


232  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

dreams  he  had  dreamed  of  the  future.  Why?  Be 
cause  he  lacked  the  courage  to  do  exactly  what  his 
wife  was  probably  doing  at  the  moment. 

And  had  his  wife  not  done  enough  ?  Had  she  not 
been  kind,  sympathetic  with  all  his  weaknesses, 
patient  with  the  privations,  uncomplaining  with  the 
pain  and  labors  of  motherhood,  generous  almost  to 
censure  with  the  small  fortune  her  uncle  had  left 
her?  Had  she  not  done  all  he  could  expect  of  her 
and  more,  without  stepping  into  the  situation  now 
and  trying  with  her  frail  strength  and  homely  courage 
to  succeed  where  he  had  failed  ? 

He  started  from  his  chair  with  a  cry.  Edith 
heard  him  and  brought  her  big  feet  down  from  the 
edge  of  the  oven  door  with  a  startled  clump. 

"Where  be  you  going,  Jack  Purse?"  she  de 
manded. 

"I'm  going  to  show  I  won't  be  a  spineless  weakling 
any  longer ! "  Jack  cried.  He  took  down  his  over 
coat  and  went  out. 

"Something,"  declared  Edith  to  the  stove,  "is 
the  matter  with  this  here  family  !" 


CHAPTER  X 

IN  WHICH  A  LIFE- WEARY  MAN  PUTS  His  TROUBLES 
UP  TO  A  WORLD-WlSE  FATHERLY  OLD  FELLOW 
AND  THINGS  BEGIN  TO  LOOK  UP  FOR  THE  PURSES 

JACK  slopped  along  the  six  miles  into  Paris  hoping 
against  hope  that  he  could  reach  Preston  Hill  before 
Mary  left.  If  he  could  only  do  that,  he  could  ex 
plain  to  old  man  Ezekial  that  he  had  not  put  her  "  up 
to  it",  that  she  had  interviewed  him  of  her  own 
accord  and  in  her  ignorance  of  the  ways  in  which 
men  did  business  and  looked  upon  such  things.  He 
would  try  to  convince  the  old  financier  that  he  was 
not  the  kind  that  had  to  send  women  to  plead  for 
him  :  that  was  the  shame  of  it. 

Down  below  McDermott's  he  heard  a  horse  and 
rig  coming  along  through  the  muck  and  slush  of  the 
road.  He  recognized  Timothy  Bailey's  old  white 
horse  and  high-bodied  buggy.  He  stepped  out  in 
front. 

"Tim,  Tim,"  he  cried,  "have  you  just  come  from 
Paris?" 

The  long,  lank  young  farmer  declared  that  he  had. 

"Did  you  pass  my  little  black  mare  on  the  road, 
with  my  wife  driving  her?" 

"Reckon  I  did,"  returned  Tim,  "down  near 
Marshall  Mills  pond  bottoms." 

"Tim,  would  you  turn  your  horse  around  and 
drive  like  the  devil  to  overtake  her?  I'll  pay  you 
well!" 


234  THE   GREATER  GLORY 

"  You'll  pay  me !  Drive  like  the  devil !  Say, 
what  th'  hell,  Jack?  Your  woman  ain't  runnin' 
away  from  you,  be  she?" 

"No,  she's  started  on  an  errand  to  Paris  that's  an 
awful  mistake  and  misunderstanding.  I've  got  to 
reach  her  before  she  gets  to  a  certain  party.  Please, 
Timothy!" 

Timothy  clumsily  backed  his  old  white  horse 
about  and  the  two  men  splattered  back  toward  the 
town. 

Twenty-five  minutes  later  they  reached  the  top 
of  Preston  Hill  on  the  west  side  of  Paris  village  and 
turned  south  on  Vermont  Avenue.  Here  stretched 
our  residential  section  containing  the  homes  of  our 
summer  people.  One  fine  old-fashioned  place  with 
broad  verandas  stood  back  from  the  walk  amid  a 
lawn  dotted  with  silver  birches.  At  the  hitching 
post  a  rig  was  tied.  Jack  Purse  recognized  the  horse 
from  afar. 

"Old  Zeke's  place  !"  echoed  Timothy.  "Gripes  ! 
What's  your  woman  doin'  at  old  Zeke's?" 

"I  can't  tell  you  — -  now,"  returned  Jack.  "How 
much  for  bringing  me  here,  Tim?  You  don't  need 
to  wait.  I'll  drive  home  with  Mary." 

"I  guess  you  don't  owe  me  —  nothin'.  I  had 
trouble  with  my  women  folks  myself.  We  all  do  ! " 

He  would  take  no  pay.  Jack  alighted  and  went 
up  the  walk. 

Panic  seized  him  as  he  approached  the  enormous 
pile  which  he  had  always  viewed  from  the  street  and 
which  increased  in  size  and  ominous  dignity  like  a 
nightmare  as  he  came  close.  He  could  never  ring 
the  bell  and  go  into  this  house  and  face  the  man  of 
whom  a  leading  financial  writer  had  once  penned  : 
" —  when  E.  E.  Ezekial  takes  snuff  we  all  sneeze  !" 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  235 

And  yet  Mary  was  in  there  now,  putting  him  to 
shame.  And  Timothy  Bailey  was  down  at  the  end 
of  the  walk,  standing  up  in  his  buggy  and  watching 
to  behold  the  miracle  of  Jack  Purse  gaining  an  en 
trance  to  the  "swellest"  place  in  Paris,  and  ready 
with  embarrassing  questions  if  he  went  soft  now  and 
turned  back.  He  had  to  go  on.  He  pulled  the 
china-white  knob  of  the  bell  as  in  a  dream. 

A  horse-faced  manservant  came  in  response  to  the 
summons.  He  snapped  on  a  light  over  Jack's 
head  and  the  whole  broad  veranda  was  illumined. 

"I  want  to  see  —  Mr.  Ezekial.  I've  got  to  see  him 
on  something  real  important.  Purse  is  the  name.  — 
I'm  from  the  local  newspaper." 

"Wait  here,"  directed  the  servant.  "I  believe 
Mr.  Ezekial  is  busy  at  present." 

"Yes,  I  know!  Tell  him  that's  just  what  I 
want  to  see  him  about.  I'll  not  take  No  for  an 
answer.  I  — 'I  —  can't ! " 

The  servant  left  the  big  glass  door  ajar.  In  a 
moment  he  was  back. 

"Mr.  Ezekial  says  he'll  give  you  fifteen  minutes  — 
because  you're  on  the  local  paper.  Follow  me  ! " 

He  led  Jack  into  a  richly  appointed  hall  and  up 
a  wide  staircase.  They  turned  the  balustrade  post 
in  front  of  a  stained-glass  window  with  a  luxurious 
window  seat  and  went  down  the  upper  hall.  At  a 
door  on  the  right  the  servant  tapped. 

"All  right !"  declared  a  heavy  voice. 

Jack  was  being  consumed  with  ague  and  nerves. 
His  thoughts  were  confused,  his  vision  blurred.  He 
only  knew  he  was  going  to  make  some  sort  of  an 
apology  to  old  man  Ezekial,  explain  that  it  didn't 
matter  what  his  wife  had  asked,  he  knew  how  busi 
ness  men  locked  on  such  things  and  would  seek  the 


236  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

capital  in  the  proper  channels  or  not  at  all.  The 
servant  with  the  elongated  features  stepped  aside 
for  him  to  pass.  And  Jack  entered  Old  Zeke's  study. 

He  saw  red  walls  hung  with  paintings  in  gold 
frames.  He  saw  a  fire  crackling  comfortably  in  the 
grate.  Across  an  immense  flat-topped  secretary 
desk  at  the  north  side  he  saw  a  very  clean  and  white 
elderly  man  facing  him,  —  a  William  H.  Taft  of  a 
man  with  a  substantial  jaw,  not  unkindly  eyes,  and 
heavy  white  moustache. 

But  there  was  no  woman  ! 

For  a  moment  Jack  stood  gaping  like  an  idiot. 

"Where's  my  wife?'*  he  demanded. 

The  elderly  man  laid  his  pen  across  a  mammoth 
bronze  inkwell. 

"Your  what?"  he  demanded  sharply. 

"My  wife!  Where  is  she?  I  thought  she  was 
here!" 

Old  Zeke,  during  his  long  career  in  Boston,  New 
York  and  Chicago,  had  met  up  with  many  fanatics. 
But  here  was  a  specimen  that  puzzled  him.  Over- 
brilliant  eyes,  snowsplashed  clothes,  muddy  shoes, 
nervous  and  not  over-clean  hands  :  Jack  Purse  was 
not  one  to  inspire  confidence  in  any  scheme  involving 
the  investment  of  money.  Jack  realized  this  per 
fectly.  He  had  not  come  for  money.  He  had  come 
for  his  wife.  And  his  wife  —  wasn't  here.  He  felt 
like  a  condemned  man  on  the  scaffold  who  has  steeled 
himself  for  the  shock  of  the  sprung  trap  and  the 
hanging,  been  suddenly  interrupted.  As  for  the 
very  clean  and  very  white  old  man,  immediately  he 
sensed  some  sort  of  conspiracy.  Yet  he  was  mystified. 
In  his  own  home,  surrounded  by  his  family  and 
servants,  the  modus  operandi  of  the  intrigue  was 
certainly  novel. 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  237 

"Your  wife!"  repeated  the  financier.  "I 
haven't  got  your  wife  here.  What  made  you  think 
that  I  had?" 

"She  came  here.  I  know  it.  Her  buggy  is 
hitched  out  in  front." 

E.  E.  Ezekial  raised  a  bushy  eyebrow. 

"Indeed !  And  what  would  your  wife  be  coming 
here  for  ?  " 

"Womanlike,  she  was  coming  to  you  for  money  — 
for  my  business." 

"Womanlike!" 

"Yes;  she  didn't  know  any  better.  She  didn't 
understand  how  men  look  at  these  things  and  that 
sentiment  doesn't  count.  She  only  understood 
that  I  stood  a  big  chance  of  making  some  money 
by  securing  the  ochre  beds  and  I've  failed  so  many 
times  that  this  time  she  was  going  to  see  what  she 
could  do." 

"Young  man,  what  on  earth  are  you  talking 
about?  Who  are  you,  anyway?" 

"My  name's  Purse.  I'm  foreman  at  the  local 
newspaper  office." 

"And  what  is  it  you're  all  wrought  up  about?" 

"My  wife  coming  here  to  ask  you  for  money." 

"But  your  wife  hasn't  been  here  to  ask  me  for 
money." 

"Then  I'm  glad  —  and  relieved  —  and  all  I  can  do 
is  to  apologize." 

"But  what  should  prompt  her  to  do  such  a  thing? 
What  kind  of  a  wife  have  you  got,  anyhow  ? " 

"A  better  than  I  deserve,"  Jack  answered.  He 
moved  toward  the  door. 

"Wait  a  minute,  young  man !  This  is  a  fine  way 
to  come  in  here  and  interrupt  and  mystify  an  old 
fellow.  What's  back  of  all  this,  anyhow?" 


238  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

"It's  too  long  a  story  to  bother  you  with.  I'd 
be  only  taking  your  valuable  time." 

"I'm  the  best  judge  of  that.  What's  the  matter 
with  you  ?  Are  you  ill  ?  " 

"I'm  sort  of  wrought  up  with  overwork  and  worry. 
When  a  man  faces  the  proposition  of  bringing  up  six 
boys  and  educating  them  on  the  wages  of  a  printing 
office,  he  realizes  that  unless  he  gets  into  business 
sometime,  sooner  or  later,  he's  going  to  give  out. 
Maybe  I'm  reaching  that  time." 

"  Six  boys  !     Have  you  got  six  boys  ?  " 

"Yes,  sir!" 

"And  a  wife  that  goes  around  looking  for  capital 
for  her  husband's  business?" 

"Yes,"  miserably. 

"Wait  a  minute,  young  man;  don't  be  in  such  a 
damned  hurry !" 

The  canny  old  financier  and  dealer  in  human  nature 
saw  suddenly  a  distraught,  over-taxed,  grimly 
honest  young  workingman  who  had  reached  a  place 
in  life's  struggle  where  he  knew  not  where  to  turn 
or  what  to  do.  He  took  note  of  the  high  forehead, 
the  fine  face,  the  direct  eyes,  the  threadbare  clothes, 
the  bonafide  embarrassment.  And  something  in 
the  picture  touched  him.  Maybe  the  melancholy 
November  night  had  something  to  do  with  it,  and 
the  rain  tapping  against  the  glass.  Maybe  it  was  the 
sorrow  which  had  come  to  the  old  man  that  week  of 
which  our  townspeople  at  the  time  had  learned 
nothing.  Maybe  it  was  something  deep  within  the 
reference  to  six  growing  boys  and  a  wife  who  went 
after  capital  for  her  husband.  Anyhow,  old  man 
Ezekial  was  suddenly  kind,  —  just  a  very  human  and 
sympathetic  old  man  who  came  around  the  corner 
of  his  desk  and  shoved  an  enormous  leather  chair 


THE  GREATER  GLORY  239 

before  the  blazing  logs  for  Jack  and  brought  for 
ward  another  for  himself. 

"Sit  down,  young  man,"  he  invited.  "Sit  down 
and  let's  visit  for  a  little  while.  You  look  sort  of 
played  out." 

"But  your  time  is  — " 

"I'm  tired  of  business  to-night.  It  would  be 
well  for  me  if  I  laid  it  aside.  I  was  only  busying 
myself,  trying  to  forget  —  something.  Won't  you 
sit  down  and  —  have  a  smoke?" 

Have  a  smoke !  With  old  man  Ezekial,  whose 
name  was  a  financial  flurry  in  six  States !  Jack 
moved  forward  in  a  daze,  as  though  the  request  was 
a  command. 

He  sank  down  into  the  luxurious  chair,  putting 
his  wet  cap  behind  him.  His  trousers'  legs  imme 
diately  began  to  steam.  The  old  financier  opened 
the  top  drawer  of  his  desk  and  brought  out  a  long 
thin  cigar  box.  Jack  took  one  of  the  Havanas  with 
raw  red  fingers. 

"Now  then,  just  for  the  sake  of  some  memories  of 
my  own,  tell  me  about  the  wife  and  six  boys  and  the 
—  struggle  to  get  into  business." 

"Mr.  Ezekial,  how  can  you  possibly  be  interested 
in  that?" 

"We've  all  been  there,  son ;  we've  all  been  there." 

"Have  you  been  there,  Mr.  Ezekial?" 

"Certainly,  young  man.  It's  the  life-story  of 
American  business  from  Maine  to  the  Golden  Gate 
all  down  the  years." 

Many  dark  days  in  the  past  eleven  years  had 
Jack  longed  for  a  father  to  whom  he  could  go  with 
his  struggle  and  his  perplexities  and  ask  for  advice. 
But  there  had  been  no  father.  He  had  never  known 
that  kind  of  parent.  Men  are  only  boys  grown  up. 


240  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

Every  man  at  some  time  or  other  has  longed  for 
the  father  of  his  boyhood  to  help  him  in  the  dark  and 
bitter  years  of  struggle  and  disappointment  and 
heartache.  There  was  nothing  maudlin  about  the 
longing. 

Here  before  the  fire  for  the  moment  Jack  Purse 
found  himself  with  a  kindly,  successful  old  man, 
—  verily,  the  father  of  his  dreams.  With  the 
eternal  boy-heart  he  told  the  story  of  his  life  and 
career  thus  far.  He  told  of  the  death  of  his  mother 
at  twelve  years,  the  newspaper  business  at  North 
Sidney,  the  bankruptcy,  the  loss  of  his  own  father, 
the  job  in  Paris.  He  told  as  best  he  could  of  his 
love  affair,  the  girl's  plight,  the  marriage,  the  home 
on  Pleasant  Street,  the  six  sons  for  whose  lives  he 
had  made  himself  responsible.  There  was  no  at 
tempt  at  effect,  no  subtle  plea  for  sympathy,  for 
he  was  not  that  kind  of  man.  He  was  simply  tired, 
perplexed,  baffled.  He  wanted  to  know  what  the 
world-wise  old  financier  in  his  difficulty  would  do. 
And  so  he  stated  his  case. 

"You  mean  to  tell  me,"  demanded  old  Ezekial 
incredulously,  "that  you  had  fifty-five  hundred 
dollars  in  your  fingers  to  do  what  you  wanted  with 
and  you  went  and  paid  it  out  for  bills  the  court  had 
declared  it  was  legally  unnecessary  for  you  to  settle  ?  " 

"Yes,  sir.     At  least  my  wife  did  !" 

"Why?" 

"Those  men  put  money  into  our  business  and 
gave  us  credit  expecting  to  receive  their  money 
back.  They'd  turned  over  full  value  and  done 
their  part.  Bankruptcy  may  be  necessary  in  some 
cases  but  in  this  one  it  looked  to  me  like  a  skin- 
game  for  those  creditors.  Legally,  I  didn't  have  to 
pay  them;  morally  I  did.  So  long  as  I  was  alive 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  241 

and  could  earn  the  money  that  debt  was  just  as 
pressing  as  if  the  court  had  not  made  my  financial 
escape  legal." 

"And  they  got  their  money  —  every  one  in  full." 

"Yes,  sir.  One  day  while  I  was  at  work  Mary 
found  my  list  of  creditors,  with  the  sums  I  owed 
them,  together  with  interest.  Instead  of  putting 
the  money  into  the  savings  bank,  she  put  it  into 
a  checking  account  and  she  sat  down  and  wrote 
checks  for  all  of  them  and  mailed  them  unbeknown 
to  me  until  the  receipts  came  in." 

"My  God!"  cried  the  old  financier.  He  forgot 
to  smoke.  He  simply  stared  at  the  bedraggled 
printer  with  wide  opened  eyes.  After  a  time  he 
said : 

"And  what  about  this  ochre  bed  you  referred  to? 
What's  the  story  of  that?" 

Jack  hesitated.  Should  he  tell  this  old  financial 
buccaneer  about  the  deposit  he  had  found  on  the 
Osgood  farm;  of  old  man  Osgood's  indifference  to 
its  value;  of  his  willingness  to  sell  for  a  puny 
thousand  dollars  ? 

The  elderly  man  must  have  grasped  what  was 
passing  in  the  other's  mind. 

"Go  on,  young  man.  Don't  be  afraid  to  tell 
me  all  about  it.  I  may  cut  the  throats  of  a  gang 
of  money  buzzards  now  and  then  with  lemonjuice 
in  their  guts  but  I  haven't  yet  reached  the  place 
where  I've  found  it  necessary  to  rob  the  widows,  or 
phans,  school-teachers  and  struggling  fathers  with 
six  babies.  Tell  me  all  about  it!" 

And  Jack  told  him.  And  after  he  had  brought 
the  whole  narrative  down  to  the  present  moment 
there  came  a  long  silence  in  the  rich  apartment 
broken  only  by  the  crackling  of  the  logs. 


242  THE   GREATER  GLORY 

"We've  all  been  there,  son,"  repeated  old  Eze- 
kial.  "I  know!  I  had  a  good  woman  once  —  like 
that." 

"Once?" 

"  She's  —  dead.     Dead  these  twenty-seven  years ! " 

"Oh!  "said  Jack. 

"I  used  to  think  I  was  the  only  one  who  had  such 
an  experience.  I  guess  it's  the  life  of  American 
married  folks  the  nation  over.  I'm  rich  now,  I 
suppose.  But  I'd  give  it  all,  all,  just  to  go  back  — 
to  a  home  I  once  knew  with  a  blue-eyed  girl  that's 
found  a  heaven  —  if  there  is  one." 

Old  Zeke  arose  and  went  to  his  desk.  He  sat 
down  there,  smoking  violently.  Then  he  got  up 
and  paced  the  floor,  his  footfalls  making  no  sound. 

"Young  man,"  he  said  huskily  at  the  end  of  five 
minutes,  "you've  recalled  things  to  me  that  I'm 
not  sorry  to  have  recalled  —  to-night.  Only,  I'm 
left  in  a  sort  of  soft  condition  to  talk  business. 
Suppose,  young  man,  that  you  come  back  and  see 
me  to-morrow  afternoon?" 

"Talk  business,  see  you,  to-morrow  afternoon?" 

"Yes,  to-morrow  afternoon.  I'm  a  little  bit 
up-set  —  after  all  that's  happened  to-day  —  to 
attempt  to  fix  anything  up  with  you  just  now. 
But- 

Jack's  face  went  white.     The  breath  left  his  lungs. 

"Fix  anything  up  with  me!"  he  whispered. 
"You  don't  mean  that  you'll  - 

"I  don't  give  a  damn  about  your  measly  little 
pasture  mud-patch,  but  a  man  ballasted  with  six 
growing  boys  and  a  faithful  woman  who'll  take  five 
thousand  dollars  and  put  it  into  paying  up  debts 
that  a  bankruptcy  court  says  haven't  got  to  be 
paid,  is  wasting  his  life  in  a  country  printing  office. 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  243 

I  only  wish  to  God  I  had  a  dozen  such  chaps  in  some 
of  my  companies.  I  can  use  'em  right  this  minute  — 
and  pay  'em  five  thousand  a  year  for  their  —  their 
—  unimpeachable  honesty.  I've  only  heard  of 
one  other  case  like  this :  it  was  an  Illinois  country 
storekeeper  who  walked  several  miles  through  the 
rain  to  return  some  change  on  which  he'd  made  a 
mistake.  I  believe  some  folks  made  him  President 
of  the  country  through  quite  a  trying  spell.  The 
world  is  starving  for  that  kind  of  man.  You  come 
back  to-morrow,  young  man.  I'm  going  to  make 
you  a  proposition." 

"But  Mr.  Ezekial,"  Jack  began  after  his  first 
emotions  had  passed,  "the  money  in  the  ochre  bed— 

"To  hell  with  the  small  change  in  that  ochre 
bed !  I'll  pay  you  three  thousand  dollars  a  year, 
commencing  next  Monday  morning,  to  go  to  New 
York,  take  a  place  in  a  certain  office,  and  leaven  a 
bunch  of  crooks  who  think  they're  smart  enough  to 
take  away  my  eyeteeth  without  Old  Zeke  knowing. 
That  is,  providing  what  you  have  told  me  to-night 
stands  investigation!" 

"Mr.  Ezekial,  I—" 

"You  take  my  advice  and  go  home  and  sleep 
from  now  until  to-morrow  afternoon.  Have  your 
wife  soak  your  feet  in  mustard  water  and  put  you 
to  bed  with  a  dose  of  castor  oil,  goose  grease  on  your 
chest  and  an  old  stocking  'round  your  neck.  Come 
and  see  me  around  toward  four  o'clock.  I've  got 
a  place  for  a  chap  like  yourself,  and  in  due  time  you'll 
understand  why.  Now  — " 

A  soft  tapping  at  the  closed  door  interrupted 
him.  The  plain-faced,  sweet-tempered,  democratic 
daughter  Martha  looked  in. 

"Is   Mrs.    Purse's   husband   here?"     she   asked. 


244  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

"We  were  passing  through  the  hall  and  we  thought 
we  heard  his  voice." 

"Yes,"  roared  old  Zeke  impatiently,  "and  if  Mrs. 
Purse  is  out  there,  tell  her  to  come  in.  I  want  to 
see  the  wife  of  a  man  in  debt  five  thousand  dollars' 
worth  who'd  spend  her  legacy  to  get  him  out !" 

Mary  came  in  wonderingly  and  caught  sight  of 
Jack's  bedraggled  appearance  and  haggard  face. 

"  What  —  has  —  happened  ?  "  she  demanded, 
frightened. 

"I've  just  made  your  man  an  offer  to  go  to  work 
for  me  in  a  place  where  I  can  count  on  his  adamantine 
honesty.  Would  you  go  with  him  and  live  in  New 
York?" 

"I'd  live  anywhere  that  means  Jack's  success  — " 

Old  Zeke  was  suddenly  softened. 

"You  are  a  good  girl,"  he  said.  "Take  your 
husband  home,  Mrs.  Purse.  He's  ill.  Get  him  on 
his  feet  again  and  then  send  him  around  to  see  me. 
We'll  fix  this  thing  up  so  he  doesn't  need  to  worry 
over  his  future.  I  know  what  six  growing  boys 
can  do  to  a  man  to  keep  him  hustling,  loyal,  on  the 
straight  track ! " 

"Mr.  Ezekial,"  began  Jack,  "I  don't  know  how 
to- 

" You're  a  sick  man,  young  fellow.     Go  home!" 

Jack  suffered  himself  to  be  aided  down  the  stairs. 
The  servant  helped  tuck  him  into  the  buggy  behind 
Monday-Washing.  Old  Zeke  and  his  daughter 
waved  them  good-by  from  the  steps  and  Timothy 
Bailey,  who  had  been  waiting  for  just  such  a  cata 
clysmic  proceeding  from  a  distant  corner,  suddenly 
thrashed  his  old  white  horse  into  fury  and  tore  for 
the  distant  village  to  spread  the  epochal  news. 

Then  the  Purses  drove  home. 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  245 

"Mary,"  choked  the  husband,  "light's  breaking 
at  last !  He  made  me  an  offer  of  three  thousand 
dollars  a  year  to  go  to  New  York  and  work  for  him." 

"How  much?"    demanded  Mary  in  a  whisper. 

"Three  —  thousand  —  dollars  !" 

"Jack !  That's  seventy -five  dollars  every  week." 
"What'll  we  ever  do  with  so  much  money?" 

"Raise  Tom  to  be  a  minister,"  declared  Jack  a 
little  hysterically.  "If  he  ever  shows  a  leaning  for 
newspaper  work  I'll  flay  him  alive." 

They  splashed  along  through  the  slough  of  mud 
and  snow  with  the  drizzle  beating  in  their  faces. 

"I  guess  you're  responsible  for  it,  as  usual," 
Jack  declared.  "It  was  you  that  started  out  to 
see  him  — " 

"I'm  a  —  miserable  —  cheat,"  she  choked.  "I 
started  out  to  see  him.  But  when  I  got  there,  I 
guess  my  courage  failed  me.  Oh,  Jack,  I'm  only  a 
woman,  and  I  didn't  —  I  didn't  —  really  know  how 
men  looked  on  such  things.  I  made  an  excuse  to 
see  Martha  on  Ladies'  Aid  business  instead."  And 
she  began  sobbing. 

A  wonderful  tenderness  surged  up  in  his  heart 
toward  her. 

"I  think  just  as  much  of  you  as  if  you  had," 
he  declared  thickly.  "After  all,  it's  worked  out  all 
right.  Think  what  lies  ahead  of  us,  Mary,  —  New 
York,  a  princely  salary,  working  for  E.  E.  Ezekial, 
Mary!" 

"Do  you  know  why  he  laid  so  much  stress  on 
honesty,  —  Why  he  was  so  interested  in  you  to 
night  especially,  Jack?" 

"No." 

"I  guess  it's  just  one  of  those  coincidences  in  life 
that  are  bound  to  happen  to  the  most  unfortunate 


246  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

of  us  by  the  law  of  averages.  Intuition  tells  me 
he's  going  to  look  you  up  to  see  if  what  you've  told 
him  is  true,  and  then  lie's  going  to  put  you  in 
the  place  where  he  thought  his  own  son  was  'safe' 
enough  to  occupy." 

"His  son  ?     What  about  his  son  ?" 

"Did  he  say  anything  about  any  sorrow  that'd 
come  to  him  to-day?" 

"No!" 

"Jack,  young  Teddy  Ezekial  has  just  taken  a  lot 
of  his  father's  money  entrusted  to  him  and  spent 
it  on  Mibb  Henderson  —  something  to  do  with  her 
singing !" 

Up  the  road  ahead  came  a  gleam  of  mellow  light. 

They  were  approaching  home. 


CHAPTER  XI 

LIFE  is  A  MIXTURE  OF  SMILES  AND  TEARS  INDEED 
AND  HAVING  SMILED  WITH  OlJR  STORY  FOLK  AT 
SUNDRY  SEASONS  IN  THIS  STORY,  WE  ARE  CALLED 
UPON  Now  TO  ENTER  ON  A  QUIET  SOLEMN 
TIME  AND  SHED  A  TEAR  FOR  A  CHASTISEMENT  OF 
THE  ALMIGHTY 

THE  next  morning  before  seven  o'clock,  Tommy 
Purse  brought  a  note  into  town  and  up  to  Sam's 
house.  It  was  from  Mary. 

"Boys,"  said  Sam  at  the  office  a  half  hour  later, 

—  "Jack  Purse  has  the  grip.     And  that  isn't  all, 

—  when  he  recovers  he's  going  to  leave  us !     Mary 
sent  word  this  morning  that  as  soon  as  he  gets  better 
he's  going  to  work  for  old  man  Ezekial  —  in  New 
York!*' 

Great  was  the  consternation  in  our  back  room  for 
the  rest  of  that  day. 

Along  toward  three  o'clock  that  afternoon  our 
front  door  opened  to  admit  —  royalty.  None  other 
than  old  E.  E.  Ezekial  stood  there  —  the  first  time 
he  had  ever  been  in  the  Telegraph  office  since  he  had 
bought  his  summer  place  in  Paris  a  decade  before. 

"I  want  a  half -hour's  talk  with  Mr.  Hod,"  he 
announced.  His  features  were  careworn  and  his 
eyes  tired.  The  sorrow  of  disappointment  in  his 
son  was  eating  far  more  deeply  into  his  tough  old 
heart  than  many  of  us  knew.  "It's  about  young 
Purse.  I  understand  he's  been  working  here." 


248  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

Sam  led  the  way  into  his  private  office  and  closed 
the  door.  They  were  closeted  for  an  hour  and  when 
the  door  was  opened  the  little  room  was  foul  with 
stale  cigar  smoke.  Old  Man  Ezekial  went  out. 

"Old  Zeke  just  gave  me  an  earful  of  news,  Bill,'* 
said  Sam.  "But  I  don't  know  whether  it's  a  square 
deal  to  him  to  publish  it  or  not.  You  know  his  boy 
Ferdinand  got  mixed  up  with  Mibb  Truman  just 
after  Herb  disappeared,  and  she  came  back  to  try  to 
raise  some  cash?" 

"Yes." 

"He  followed  her  to  New  York  and  she's  been 
carrying  on  with  him  more  or  less  ever  since.  Any 
how,  he's  fallen  for  her.  He  took  a  lot  of  his  dad's 
money  and  backed  her  on  the  stage.  And  now  she's 
left  him  —  with  success  coming  to  her  —  and  gone 
on  her  own." 

"But  what's  become  of  Mibb's  mother?" 

"I  don't  know.  Nobody  does.  After  Mibb  got 
her  divorce  for  Herb's  desertion,  she  dropped  out  of 
sight.  You'd  probably  find  her  in  some  obscure 
little  place  where  she  isn't  known,  running  a  board 
ing  house." 

"And  telling  her  troubles  to  anyone  who'll  listen." 

"Yes,"  Sam  confirmed. 

And  he  lighted  his  pipe  philosophically. 

The  days  went  by.  Mike  Garrity  ascended  into 
the  seat  of  the  mighty,  meaning  the  foremanship 
of  our  back  office.  He  was  a  big-bodied,  white-eye- 
browed  Irishman  who  never  wore  a  printer's  apron 
and  always  gave  the  impression  that  he  was  only 
holding  the  job  down  for  a  few  minutes  during  some 
body's  absence.  But  he  did  get  the  work  out  of 
the  help.  Getting  to  press  on  time  was  his  specialty. 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  249 

There  were  many  cuss-words  ;  some  tears.  But  he 
put  system  in  our  office  and  brought  praise  from  our 
advertisers. 

The  days  went  by,  indeed  —  seven  of  them. 

Then  the  horse-faced  servant  from  Preston  Hill 
came  in  one  afternoon  and  wanted  to  know  if  we 
had  heard  anything  about  John  Purse's  condition. 
Mr.  Ezekial  was  returning  to  New  York  on  the  follow 
ing  day  and  he  couldn't  hold  the  place  he  had  for 
Jack  open  indefinitely. 

"We  haven't  heard  anything  beyond  what  there's 
been  in  the  paper,"  Sam  replied.  "But  for  the  sake 
of  Jack's  future  I'll  take  a  run  out  this  evening  and 
try  and  get  something  definite  for  Mr.  Ezekial. 
It  would  be  hard  luck  if  Jack  lost  this  opportunity 
through  prolonged  illness." 

Sam  drove  out  to  the  Purse  place  in  one  of  Uncle 
Joe  Fodder's  livery  rigs.  At  half -past  eleven  at 
night  I  was  awakened  by  the  ominous  ringing  of 
my  own  doorbell.  Sam  stood  out  in  the  frosty 
moonlight. 

"Bill,"  he  said,  "—oh,  God,  Bill!  — Jack's  grip 
has  gone  into  pneumonia,  and  he's  taken  a  turn  for 
the  worse  !  Bill,  you  better  get  in  and  come  back 
with  me.  Because  —  Jack  isn't  expected  —  to  live 
—  until  morning  ! " 

We  spoke  not  a  word  as  we  drove  those  six 
miles  through  the  crystalwhite  winter  country.  I 
sat  for  the  entire  distance  badly  cramped  by  an 
oxygen  tank  which  Sam  had  procured  from  the 
Metropolitan  Drug  Store.  Far  across  the  crusted 
winter  fields  where  swept  gusts  of  nipping  air,  I 
saw  ruddy  lights  at  last.  Every  room  in  the  Purse 
house  appeared  lighted. 

We  met  Doctor  Johnson  at  the  threshold  of  the 


250  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

room  off  the  kitchen,  —  the  little  side  bedroom  that 
for  years  had  been  Mary's  mother's. 

"You've  brought  the  tank?"   he  demanded. 

"Yes,"  said  Sam  huskily. 

"I'm  afraid  it's  useless.  Mary  waited  too  long. 
She  depended  too  much  on  home  remedies,  thinking 
it  was  only  a  bad  cold  that  he  had." 

"Where  is  Mary?" 

"In  there  —  with  him." 

"Can  we  go  in?" 

"Yes." 

Mary  was  sitting  on  the  edge  of  the  bed  holding 
Jack's  hand.  She  raised  her  face  blankly  as  we 
entered.  The  situation  was  too  sinister,  too  intense, 
for  such  trifles  as  recognition.  She  looked  at  us 
and  then  turned  her  gaze  back  down  on  Jack's 
sleeping  face.  But  in  that  instant  we  saw  that 
Mary  Purse  was  old.  Her  face  was  sunken.  Her 
eyes  were  hollow.  Her  hair  was  sprinkled  with 
gray. 

Sam  walked  the  floor  ceaselessly,  up  and  down  the 
farmhouse  dining  room,  carrying  and  comforting  a 
little  boy  who  was  persistent  in  whimpering  and 
breaking  the  silence  of  that  house  because  he  could 
not  have  his  mother.  I  sat  in  the  armchair  and  tried 
to  comfort  young  Tom,  age  eleven,  who  was  old 
enough  to  realize  much  that  was  taking  place.  But 
it  was  all  a  bungled  job  at  best.  The  other  boys 
were  asleep,  never  knowing,  alas,  the  meaning  of  the 
long  watches  of  that  night. 

Along  toward  four  o'clock,  under  the  influence  of 
the  oxygen,  though  still  struggling  with  his  breath 
ing,  Jack  rallied,  came  to  consciousness  and  opened 
his  eyes. 

His  gaze  met  the  face  of  his  wife. 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  251 

Her  features  and  the  faces  of  those  about  his  bed 
seemed  to  tell  him  the  worst. 

"Perhaps  —  I  wouldn't  have  made  good  —  at 
Mr.  Ezekial's  office,  after  all,"  he  whispered  weakly 
so  that  Mary  had  to  bend  down  to  catch  the 
words.  "Nevermind!  Some  —  other  —  time!  Oh, 
Mary !  You  were  a  better  wife  than  I  was  a  hus 
band.  You  —  will  —  be  —  a  better  —  mother  than 
I  was  father.  I'll  try  again  —  some  other  time  ! " 

There  was  a  gentle  pressure  of  his  hand. 

Some  —  other  —  time  ! 

Mary  put  her  free  hand  suddenly  to  her  eyes. 
Otherwise  there  was  no  sound,  no  motion,  in  that 
room. 

And  Jack  Purse  went  home. 

During  the  thirty-seven  years  in  which  we  have 
been  publishing  a  newspaper,  it  follows  that  we  have 
written  many,  many  obituaries.  But  no  obituary 
has  ever  meant  to  us  exactly  what  Jack  Purse's  did, 
for  without  wishing  to  pose  as  heartless  or  unduly 
calloused  we  may  set  it  down  that  the  hundreds  of 
others  have  been  the  material  with  which  we  did 
business.  But  Jack  Purse's  obituary  was  the  sum 
mary  and  the  heart-story  of  a  man's  life  bringing 
death  home  to  us,  —  stark  and  sinister  and  grim  and 
deadly.  Sam  would  suffer  no  one  else  to  attempt 
that  column  story.  He  also  wrote  an  article  for 
the  editorial  column.  And  both  were  masterpieces 
because  he  forgot  he  was  writing  for  print,  forgot 
the  thing  called  literary  effect,  forgot  technique  and 
paragraphing  and  punctuation  and  style  and  com 
posed  from  his  soul  the  simple  little  record  of  the 
passing  of  a  friend. 

The    obituary    and    the    editorial    caused    much 


THE   GREATER   GLORY 

comment  in  the  community.  Every  one  knew  the 
Purses  and  how  Jack's  fortunes  were  about  to  change 
just  as  he  was  "taken."  Every  one  knew  also  the 
predicament  in  which  Mary  had  been  left.  It 
happened  that  the  sewing  circle  of  Calvary  Church 
met  the  day  between  the  death  and  the  funeral  and 
the  comment  of  its  membership  is  again  of  note : 

Mrs.  Artemus  Howard  voiced  the  universal 
sentiment.  She  said : 

"I  don't  mind  the  passing  of  Mr.  Purse  himself. 
He's  out  of  his  troubles.  But  think  of  Mary — nice 
little  woman  that  she  is  —  left  with  all  those  little 
children  !  What  will  she  ever  do  ?" 

"And  after  all  the  trouble  she  had  about  ten 
years  ago  with  her  own  folks!"  declared  Mrs. 
Taylor,  " — not  to  mention  the  struggles  she  has 
been  through  since  in  a  financial  way  and  havin' 
so  many  babies  and  all.  I  wish  the  Lord  would  give 
me  the  running  of  this  universe  for  just  five  minutes. 
I'd  change  some  things !  It'd  do  your  soul  good  to 
watch  me !" 

"I  heard  he  was  just  going  to  work  for  old  man 
Ezekial  at  some  fishy-soundin'  sum  of  money," 
declared  Mrs.  Dexter  Merritt.  "He'd  went  up  with 
a  nerve  o'  brass  that  T  wrish  my  Dexter  could  muster, 
and  he'd  got  Mr.  Ezekial  to  do  soinethin'  handsome 
for  him.  And  right  away  he's  taken !  Right  when 
the  light  was  shinin'  through  on  all  the  darkness  of 
his  struggles  and  troubles,  he  was  taken !  What  a 
mystery,  what  a  mystery !  And  a  mess !  There 
simply  ain't  no  consistency  to  the  world  nohow." 

Mrs.  Fred  Babcock  called  attention  to  the  fact 
that  Jack  carried  no  life  insurance  although  Fred 
had  been  up  to  see  the  Purses  scores  of  times  and 
Jack  was  always  just  going  to  do  it  but  never  felt 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  253 

he  could  quite  afford  it,  and  now  look  at  the  fix  his 
wife  is  in.  And  she  went  on  to  say  that  was  always 
the  way  it  was :  men  without  chick  or  children  and 
only  some  frumpy  old  woman  to  look  after,  always 
carried  thousands,  and  them  as  had  helpless  wives 
and  little  mouths  depending  on  'em  thought  they 
could  get  by  somehow  and  take  chances  with  death 
that  always  bested  'em  ! 

Mrs.  Walter  Gaylord  said  the  village  ought  to 
take  up  a  collection  to  help  Mary  out  and  Miss 
Malinda  Sparrow  said  she  doubted  if  Mary  would 
accept  it  if  the  village  should.  She  was  very  proud, 
was  Mary.  To  which  Judge  Farmer's  wife  said 
"beggars  shouldn't  be  choosers",  which  she  was 
immediately  sorry  for,  meaning  no  unkindness  but 
being  simply  unfortunate  in  her  choice  of  an  axiom 
appropriate  for  the  circumstances. 

Mrs.  Blake  Whipple,  a  lady  of  parts  and  known 
of  old  to  have  an  eye  for  business,  for  once  had  no 
comment  to  make  in  a  commercial  capacity.  She 
merely  remarked  that  Blake  was  pretty  well  screwed 
up  to  such  situations  and  usually  they  didn't  upset 
him.  But  when  he  came  back  from  the  Purse 
place  with  all  those  little  children  playing  around 
almost  as  usual  and  never  knowing  their  loss  that 
was  laid  out  in  the  chilly  front  room,  he  said  damn  his 
business  anyhow,  and  if  it  wasn't  for  the  dead  folks 
havin'  to  be  took  care  of  and  some  one  simply  havin' 
to  do  it,  he'd  get  out  of  it  so  quick  you'd  never  see 
him  and  his  hearse  go ;  you'd  just  simply  miss  'em. 

But  Jack  Purse  was  gone  —  gone !  Gone  just 
when  his  fortunes  showed  promise  of  change. 

WE  do  not  understand,  being  ordinary  thick- 
skulled  males,  how  Mary  Purse  survived  that  blow. 


254  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

She  must  have  gone  through  hell  the  first  week 
following  the  placing  of  Jack's  body  in  the  vault  for 
burial  in  the  spring.  Our  wives  went  out  there  to 
console  her  and  brought  back  stories  of  her  cheer 
fulness,  her  poise,  the  wonderful  tenderness  she 
exhibited  toward  her  fatherless  boys.  And  then,  — 
then  came  an  episode  with  which  it  is  fitting  to  close 
this  portion  of  our  narrative  and  move  on  out  of 
scenes  of  struggle  and  grief  and  heartache  into  those 
of  success  and  glory  and  great  peace.  About  seven 
days  after  the  funeral,  Mary  Purse  came  into  our 
office. 

It  was  Saturday  afternoon.  The  paper  had  been 
run  off  but  the  boys  and  girls  had  not  been  paid  off 
or  the  shafting  stopped  whirring  in  the  basement. 
Crowds  of  farmers  were  milling  up  and  down  Main 
Street,  patronizing  our  barber  shops,  occasional 
individuals  dropping  in  now  and  then  to  insert 
classified  ads  or  pay  their  subscriptions.  Sam  Hod 
looked  up  from  the  exchange  he  was  reading  and 
there,  in  the  private-office  doorway  between  our 
two  desks,  stood  Mary. 

She  was  in  mourning  but  not  morbidly  so.  Her 
face  was  drawn,  her  hair  was  grayer  than  ever. 
She  was  not  thirty -five,  yet  somehow  Mary  Purse  had 
mellowed.  Grief  and  terrible  trouble  affects  some 
folk  that  way.  Others  it  makes  mean  and  cynical 
and  hateful  toward  their  fellows  and  their  God.  But 
Mary  was  one  of  those  whom  the  vicissitudes  of 
life  were  mellowing  and  deepening,  one  of  those  whom 
it  is  good  to  have  around  because  of  what  they  have 
suffered. 

"Mary!"  cried  Sam,  springing  up  and  placing  a 
chair  for  her.  "You!  I'm  so  glad  to  see  you  again, 
Mary !  We  didn't  know  whether  coming  out  to  try 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  255 

to  console  you  would  make  things  better  or  worse. 
We  haven't  quite  gotten  over  Jack's  passing  yet 
ourselves." 

She  took  the  chair.     She  smiled  a  wonderful  smile. 

"You  shouldn't  have  hesitated  to  come,  Mr. 
Hod.  But  that  is  in  the  past.  I  have  come  to  you 
because  I  want  something." 

''Yes,  Mary.     What  can  we  do  for  you?" 

"Mr.  Hod,  I'm  wondering  if  you'd  do  something 
for  me  so  very  hard  and  that  sounds  so  impertinent 
for  me  to  ask  that  I'm  almost  ill  with  worry  that  you 
might  refuse." 

"Anything  on  earth  I  can  do  for  you,  I  promise 
that  I  will,  Mary." 

She  waited  a  moment  before  the  request  came  out. 

"Mr.  Hod,"  she  said  fearfully,  faintly,  but 
steadily,  "I  want  —  can  I  have  —  my  old  place  — 
back  —  in  your  office  ?  " 

Sam  looked  at  her  blankly. 

"You  want  what?" 

"I  want  my  old  job  back,  in  your  office.  Setting 
type  in  a  printing  office  is  all  that  I  know  how  to  do. 
And  I  must  do  something.  All  during  this  week 
I  have  been  turning  it  over  and  over  in  my  heart. 
That  first  night  after  the  funeral  I  got  into  bed  alone. 
I  could  not  stand  it  alone.  I  called  to  my  boys  and 
they  got  into  bed  with  me.  The  little  ones  thought 
it  was  sport.  The  older  boys  snuggled  up  close 
beside  me.  Yes,  we  did !  —  six  of  us  in  one  bed. 
And  they  quieted  down  after  a  time  and  fell  asleep. 
I  only  was  left  awake  in  the  awful,  awful  dark. 

"And  there  in  the  bed,  with  the  bodies  of  my  boys 
around  me,  and  their  little  hearts  beating  close  to 
mine,  I  laid  in  the  silence  and  fought  it  out  with 
myself.  I  must  not  complain.  I  must  not  lose 


256  THE   GREATER  GLORY 

heart  nor  faith.  I  must  take  up  the  battle  of  life 
where  Jack  laid  it  down  and  carry  it  on.  I  am  not 
the  first  woman  who  has  lost  a  husband.  I  must  not 
think  of  my  sorrow.  I  must  bury  that  in  my  heart 
and  my  life.  Ahead  of  me  lies  the  work  of  raising 
those  boys  of  mine  to  be  good  men.  And  when  I 
have  done  that,  I  am  ready  and  willing  to  lay  down 
my  heartache  and  follow  Jack.  That  is  for  the  far, 
far  future.  Life  for  me  now  must  be  too  practical 
to  think  of  that." 

"  You  want  to  go  to  work  —  here  ?  " 

"Yes.  I  am  going  to  work  —  here  if  you'll  let 
me.  I  am  going  on !  God  helping  me,  I  will  not 
fail  my  little  boys  ! " 

"And  you  think  you  can  do  it  by  working  here, 
Mary!" 

"I  thought  some  of  taking  Tom  out  of  school. 
The  next  moment  it  seemed  ridiculous.  Just  be 
cause  my  life  has  ended  in  failure  is  no  reason  why 
I  should  do  anything  to  make  his  little  life  a  failure, 
also.  So  I'm  going  to  keep  him  in  school  and  all 
the  other  boys  as  fast  as  they  become  old  enough. 
I've  got  the  cow,  the  little  black  mare  and  the  place ; 
I  guess  I  can  manage  somehow  —  if  you  only  give 
me  back  my  work.  Old  Mrs.  Morrow  will  live  with 
us  and  look  after  the  youngsters  while  I'm  here  in 
the  village  typesetting  each  day.  If  you  can  give  me 
the  chance  to  earn  nine  or  ten  dollars  a  week,  it 
will  keep  us  in  clothes  and  pay  the  taxes  and  doctor's 
bills  that  are  bound  to  come.  Then  as  each  boy 
gets  through  college,  I  count  on  him  turning  around 
and  helping  the  next  younger  brother  under  him." 

"What!"  we  both  cried.  "You're  going  to  try 
to  put  those  six  boys  through  college  —  alone  ?" 

"Yes,  I'm  going  to  try.     Once  I  wanted  to  go  to 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  257 

college.  Once  I  wanted  to  amount  to  something 
in  the  world.  But  things  occurred  that  prevented 
me.  Somehow  the  chance  never  seemed  to  work 
around.  I  had  to  leave  home  suddenly  and  go  to 
work  —  here.  Then  I  got  married  and  the  babies 
came.  After  that  there  was  no  hope.  And  I 
faced  it.  But  my  boys  —  every  one  of  them  !  — 
are  going  through  college  if  it  kills  me !  I  want 
Tom  to  go  through  theological  school  and  turn  out 
a  preacher.  I  guess  that  every  mother  wishes 
that  one  of  her  boys  would  turn  out  a  preacher. 
But  whatever  happens,  I  shall  do  my  best  and  leave 
the  rest  to  God.  Mr.  Hod,  I  want  that  old  place  of 
mine  very,  very  much.  I'll  work  my  fingers  to  the 
bone  if  you'll  only  give  me  the  chance.  Can  I 
have  it?" 

"Yes,  Mary,"  replied  Sam  quietly,  —  the  pref 
ace  to  an  emotional  explosion,  "You  can  have  it. 
Come  in  Monday  morning  and  take  your  old  job. 
The  wages  will  be  sixteen  dollars  a  week  and  you 
can  keep  it  till  you're  a  hundred  !" 

When  she  had  gone  I  said  to  Sam  : 

"But  she  can't  set  anything  but  straight  matter, 
Sam !  And  we  don't  set  any  more  straight  matter 
by  hand.  We  dumped  all  our  eight  point  when  we 
installed  the  machines." 

"Then,  by  gad,  we'll  buy  some  !"  roared  Sam  Hod. 
"For  so  long  as  I  own  a  controlling  interest  in  this 
Biannual  Bedquilt  which  the  town  calls  a  newspaper, 
that  woman  shall  have  a  job  here  as  long  as  there's 
one  exclamation  point  left  outside  the  hell-box ! 
And  if  any  bat-eared  slob  with  a  kink  in  his  neck 
ever  breathes  that  we  bought  type  especially  for  her 
to  stick,  there'll  be  a  bunch  of  journalistic  fatheads 
taken  suddenly  dead  around  here  that  we  won't  show 


258  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

enough  post-mortem  respect  to  haul  out  by  the 
legs!" 

"But  sixteen  dollars  a  week,  Sam  !" 

"  Yes,  sixteen  dollars  a  week  !  And  what  about  six 
teen  dollars  a  week  ?  Suppose  Jesus  Christ  walked 
into  my  office  this  afternoon  and  sat  down  opposite 
the  exchange  table.  Suppose  He  said  to  me,  'Sam 
Hod,  will  you  manage  somehow  to  rake  together 
sixteen  measly  dollars  every  Saturday  to  loan  to 
Me  so  that  I  can  help  a  poor,  perplexed,  bewildered 
mother  raise  six  freckled-faced,  hell-raising,  button- 
busting  kids  ? '  I'd  just  naturally  scrape  that  money 
together  somehow,  wouldn't  I  ?  —  for  His  sake  ? 
Well,  I  don't  mind  sayin'  that  seven  minutes  ago, 
as  I  sat  in  that  chair  and  Mary  Purse  declared  her 
intention  o'  slavin'  her  life  out  to  put  them  half- 
dozen  young  wild-cats  through  school  —  /  Saiv 
Jesus  Christ  in  that  woman's  face!  And  I'd  a  damned 
sight  rather  lay  a  few  mouldy  treasures  for  myself 
in  heaven  by  givin'  Mary  Purse  sixteen  dollars  of 
unnecessary  money  every  Saturday  afternoon  than 
give  double  that  amount  to  some  of  the  churches 
of  this  town.  I'd  rather  do  it  than  help  pay  minis 
ter's  grocery  bills  or  send  missionaries  to  teach  the 
slant-eyed  Japs  how  to  bungle  the  Beatitudes  or 
that  Moses  was  a  Hebrew  law-maker  and  not  a 
Canal  Street  manufacturer  of  boys'  pants !" 

Sam  was  exploding  with  a  vengeance  and  when 
in  that  condition,  had  a  certain  facility  with  language. 

He  went  into  the  back  room  and  addressed  the 
force. 

"Boys,"  he  announced,  "Mary  Purse  —  Jack's 
wife  —  is  coming  back  to  work  for  us.  She  com 
mences  Monday  morning." 

Mike    Garrity    straightened   up   from   his   stone. 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  259 

"What?"  he  demanded. 

"I  said  Jack  Purse's  widow,  who  once  graced  this 
hole  with  her  sweet  presence,  is  coming  back  to  pick 
up  her  stick  and  show  us  how  to  set  a  few  locals  so 
I  don't  dread  the  sickenin'  ring  of  a  telephone  bell 
every  night  after  supper !  " 

Mike  said  an  unholy  sentence  and  threw  down  his 
quoin-key. 

"Then,  by  gad,  I'm  about  ready  to  quit!  After 
all  the  pie-eyed  freaks  I've  had  wished  on  to  me  since 
I  come  into  this  place  to  make  over  into  printers,  to 
have  an  old  woman  given  a  place  as  an  object  of 
charity  —  ! " 

He  got  no  further.  Only  once  in  my  life  have  I 
known  Sam  Hod  to  see  red.  He  was  upon  Mike 
with  an  oath  and  had  him  by  the  throat. 

"Take  it  back  !  —  you  foul-mouthed,  bleary-eyed, 
tobacco-spittin'  harp  !  Act  crazy  with  joy  that  she's 
comin'  and  treat  her  like  a  lady,  or  by  the  eternal 
Jehoshaphat  I'll  bust  you  in  the  jaw,  hammer  you 
against  the  wall,  grind  your  ugly  mug  in  the  gravel 
and  stamp  on  your  stomach !  Now  then,  what  is 
there  about  this  newcomer's  position  here  that  you 
don't  understand?  Speak  it  out  now  and  speak  it 
out  loud.  Because  if  you  open  your  elongated  head 
about  it  after  she  gets  here,  it's  going  to  take  more 
money  than  Solomon  spent  on  his  immortal  meeting 
house  to  pay  for  the  masses  said  over  your  smoul- 
derin'  soul ! " 

But  Mike  had  nothing  to  say,  absolutely  nothing. 
When  Sam  untangled  his  fingers,  the  Irishman's 
face  was  pasty.  Deprived  of  Sam's  support,  he 
caught  himself  as  he  was  sliding  onto  his  knees. 

The  office  —  individually  and  otherwise  —  drew  a 
long  breath.  They  continued  their  washing  up  with 


260  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

strange  smiles  playing  upon  their  faces.  From  time 
to  time  after  Sam  had  returned  to  the  front  office 
they  cast  furtive  glances  at  the  suddenly  cowed 
foreman. 

Considering  Mike's  little  idiosyncrasies  of  self- 
aggrandizement  since  he  had  taken  Jack's  position 
and  his  frequent  loud-mouthed  assertions  of  con 
tempt  and  independence  of  the  boss,  Sam's  emotional 
explosion  had  rather  smashed  Mike's  militarism. 

On  the  whole  a  pleasant  time  had  been  had  by  all. 


CHAPTER  XII 

IN  WHICH  WE  ACKNOWLEDGE  THE  VISIT  OF  THE 
TRUMAN  WOMAN,  NEE  HENDERSON,  ON  THE  SECOND 
OF  THREE  VISITS  WHICH  SHE  PAYS  TO  THE  HERO 
INE  OF  OUR  NARRATIVE. 

MANY  are  the  elderly  people  all  over  the  land 
who  recollect  very  well  when  the  Great  Zola  captured 
the  music-lovers  of  the  country,  half  a  generation  ago, 
and  carried  the  nation  by  storm.  She  filled  theatres, 
auditoriums  and  music  halls  from  old  Cape  Cod  to 
the  Golden  Gate  and  then  appeared  to  have  dropped 
out  of  sight  as  completely  as  though  old  mother 
Earth  had  opened  and  engulfed  her  forever. 

The  Great  Zola  indeed ! 

Where  she  got  the  name  none  of  us  ever  heard  or 
knew.  As  Uncle  Joe  Fodder  put  it :  "Fame  usually 
consists  o'  long  hair,  longer  nerve  and  a  few  idle 
letters  of  the  alphabet,  anyhow,  compressed  into  a 
reasonable  amount  o'  newspaper  advertisin'."  And 
in  Mibb  Truman's  case  it  did  look  indeed  as  though 
Uncle  Joe  were  correct.  For  Mibb  called  herself 
"The  Great  Zola"  and  had  a  backer  and  a  press  agent. 
Her  wonderful  voice,  given  her  from  birth,  trained  for 
a  few  years  and  then  exhibited  before  "the  best 
people"  did  for  her  all  that  may  have  been  expected. 
Mibb  "arrived"  at  last,  although  the  angels  may  have 
sighed  at  times  over  the  methods  by  which  Mabel 
advanced  her  career  and  reached  her  hilltop. 

When  poor  young  Ferdie  Ezekial  blew  out  his 


262  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

brains  in  an  Atlantic  City  hotel  some  time  after,  his 
family  gave  it  out  that  he  had  been  a  victim  of 
melancholia  since  boyhood.  But  some  of  the  plain- 
spoken  folks  of  our  town  made  no  bones  of  saying 
that  he  did  it  because  after  backing  Mibb  Truman 
and  buzzing  about  her  as  a  moth  buzzes  about  a 
flame  for  a  year  and  a  day,  until  she  had  achieved  a 
tuppence  worth  of  fame  in  some  quarters  on  her  talent 
and  his  money,  the  woman  turned  him  down  for  a 
Quick  Rich  Johnnie  from  the  West  who  subsequently 
went  financially  insolvent,  if  not  mentally  and 
morally  so,  endeavoring  to  keep  up  with  Mibb's 
ramifications.  Then  we  next  heard  of  her  having 
met  Dick  Robinson,  the  boy  who  had  proposed  to  her 
once  in  the  long  ago  on  the  way  home  from  singing 
school  and  been  laughed  at,  and  gone  away  to  the 
city  and  and  remained  a  bachelor  and  made  several 
millions  of  dollars  as  vice-president  of  some  big  oil 
company.  These  things  leak  back  to  a  little  New 
England  town.  Because  of  her  fame,  perhaps,  Dick 
had  picked  up  with  her  again,  and  Judge  Farmer 
who  spent  much  of  his  time  now  in  New  York,  de 
clared  he  had  met  them  in  Delmonico's  together  on 
several  occasions. 

But  the  mills  of  the  gods  grind  slowly.  One  cannot 
sow  the  wind  without  reaping  the  whirlwind. 

And  while  Mibb  Henderson  was  journeying  to 
and  fro  in  the  land  and  going  up  and  down  in  it  sing 
ing  wonderful  songs  at  hundreds  of  dollars  a  night 
and  spending  on  baubles  what  would  have  kept  Mary 
Purse  and  her  growing  family  in  the  necessities  of  life 
for  a  year,  this  same  Mary  Purse  was  back  at  her  place 
in  our  office  day  after  day  before  a  typecase,  now  set 
ting  locals  when  the  machines  were  busy  and  we 
needed  extra  matter,  now  helping  with  twelve  point 


THE   GREATER  GLORY  263 

in  the  Modern  Bargain  store  ads,  assisting  with 
the  mailing  or  reading  proof,  earning  her  sixteen 
dollars  every  week  which  was  quickly  spent  as  in 
days  of  old,  for  the  sustenance  of  others  beside  her 
self.  There  were  times  when  it  did  seem  as  though 
Mibb's  philosophy  had  beeen  soundest  after  all. 

So  one  grand  bird  wore  grand  plumage  and  flew 
high,  and  another  in  softer,  grayer  feathers  remained 
close  to  earth  and  hunted  food  for  hungry  little 
mouths,  and  the  years  began  to  go  onward  faster  and 
faster,  and  the  Purse  boys  took  to  bursting  buttons 
and  ripping  seams  more  than  ever  and  increasing 
their  stature  overnight,  after  the  manner  of  boys  since 
Adam  became  the  father  of  young. 

Mary  Purse  was  sitting  in  a  creaking  rocker  in  the 
twilight  of  a  restful  Sunday  afternoon  when  the 
muffled  throbbing  of  an  automobile  sounded  out 
front,  accompanied  by  the  slam  of  a  door.  Auto 
mobiles  were  curiosities  in  those  days,  rarely  stopping 
before  the  Purse  place.  Mary  moved  across  to  the 
window  and  peered  out  through  the  ladders  of 
geraniums. 

A  high  newfangled  car  stood  in  the  road.  On  its 
forward  seat  was  a  man  in  livery.  The  sinking  sun 
glinted  on  its  polished  surfaces  but  Mary  paid  but 
brief  attention  to  the  vehicle.  A  woman  was  coming 
into  the  yard  and  the  woman  was  Mibb. 

She  came  leisurely  up  the  path,  carrying  a  sailor 
hat  in  her  hand  and  looking  interestedly  about  her. 
Once  she  stopped,  turned  and  gazed  over  the  hills 
and  the  valleys  far  away,  beautiful  in  the  peaceful 
hush  of  the  mellow  sunset. 

Mary  moved  across  the  room  to  the  door.  After 
all  she  was  Mibb  Henderson  of  the  old  days,  her  girl 
hood  friend. 


264  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

"Hello,  Mary!"  greeted  Mibb,  standing  on  tha 
doorstone  fringed  with  the  plantain  leaves. 

"How  do  you  do,  Mabel,"  responded  Mary. 
"Won't  you  come  in?" 

"For  a  few  minutes  perhaps,"  the  other  answered. 
"I  just  ran  out  to  see  how  things  were  going  and  to 
talk  over  old  times  with  you.  I  don't  get  a  chance 
to  look  Paris  over  very  closely  nowadays.  All  our  set 
seems  to  have  grown  up  or  died  or  moved  away,  and 
all  the  faces  you  see  on  the  streets  nowadays  are 
strange.  I'm  a  busy  woman  nowadays,  Mary." 

"So  I  understand,  Mabel.  We  hear  of  you  once  in 
a  while  back  here.  You  have  made  a  wonderful 
success  of  your  voice ;  Judge  Farmer  came  back  from 
New  York  last  month  and  said  he  went  to  hear  you. 
It  must  be  a  great  source  of  satisfaction  to  you." 

"Oh  that's  nothing,"  declared  Mibb  con 
temptuously.  "I  always  said  I  could  look  out  for 
myself,  didn't  I  ?  You  could  have  done  something 
similar  if  you  hadn't  been  so  sickishly  sentimental. 
After  all,  in  this  life,  we  have  to  look  out  for  our 
selves.  If  we  don't  nobody  else  will,  that's  sure!" 
She  paused  on  the  step.  "My  heaven's,  who's  that 
boy?" 

"That's  my  eldest  boy,  Tom.  He's  fifteen  this 
coming  summer,  although  the  neighbors  say  he  looks 
eighteen  or  twenty." 

The  boy  had  appeared  with  a  vault  over  the  stone 
wall  followed  by  a  black  spaniel  dog.  He  went  on 
through  the  yard  to  the  barn.  Mabel  looked  after 
him  blankly.  Then  she  flushed.  For  it  must  have 
come  to  her  in  that  moment  how  many  years  had 
passed  since  she  had  poked  her  very  patrician  finger 
in  Thomas  Joshua's  infantile  torso  as  old  ladies  poke 
their  fingers  into  prospective  pot-roasts  at  the 


THE   GREATER  GLORY  265 

butcher's.  Yes  indeed,  it  must  have  come  to  Mibb 
that  she  was  getting  on.  And  it  must  have  hurt. 
For  Mibb  was  one  of  those  worthy  females  who  hadn't 
had  a  birthday  in  the  last  dozen  years.  She  said 
quickly  :  "And  may  I  come  in  and  see  your  old  house  ? 
You  know  I  haven't  been  out  here  to  go  inside  since  I 
was  a  little  girl  and  father's  buggy  wheel  came  off,  a 
little  way  down  the  road,  spilling  mother  and  me  out 
on  the  ground  in  the  cold  slush." 

"Certainly  you  may  come  in,  Mabel.  Although 
the  house  doesn't  look  at  its  best.  The  boys  are 
always  leaving  something  around.  Richard  must 
put  his  baseball  things  away ;  I  keep  telling  him  that 
I'll  burn  them  up  if  he  persists  in  dropping  them 
when  he's  done  with  them,  but  of  course  I  wouldn't. 
A  boy's  a  boy." 

Madame  Zola  entered  the  little  west  sitting  room, 
—  the  room  with  the  rag  carpet  on  the  floor  that  was 
once  Jack's  mother's,  with  one  or  two  high-backed 
old  horsehair  rockers  with  tidies ;  the  marble-topped 
center  table ;  the  whatnot  in  the  corner ;  the  high  old 
secretary  and  the  enlarged  picture  of  Jack  in  crayon 
over  the  mantel.  It  was  a  homely,  quiet,  comfort 
able  old  room  —  a  typical  room  for  a  woman  with  a 
family  of  growing  boys  being  raised  in  the  country  — 
the  windows  massed  with  geraniums,  petunias,  inch- 
plant  and  heliotrope.  Madame  Zola  took  one  of  the 
heavy  horsehair  rockers  and  ran  her  eye  over  the 
things  in  the  room  depreciatingly. 

"I'm  glad  you  came,"  volunteered  Mary  politely. 
"I  get  so  few  visitors  way  out  here  these  days  —  with 
my  work  in  the  office  keeping  me  so  busy  during  the 
week.  Mrs.  Morrow  is  over  to  the  Browns'  this 
afternoon  —  ' 

"Lord  sake  !     Then  why  do  you  live  way  out  here  ? 


266  THE   GREATER  GLORY 

Why  not  move  into  the  village  where  there's  some 
thing  going  on  ?" 

"It's  home,"  replied  Mary  weakly. 

Mibb  glanced  the  room  over  again.  She  glanced 
Mary  over  also,  —  from  the  worn  frayed  shoes  on 
her  weary  feet  to  the  dark  hair  streaked  with  gray, 
done  hard  and  flat  upon  her  head.  Truly  it  was 
difficult  to  realize  that  these  two  women  were  almost 
of  an  age. 

"Mary,"  she  said  finally,  "it's  too  bad!" 

"What's  'too  bad',  Mabel?" 

"The  way  you've  ruined  your  life.  We  started 
out  equally,  Mary.  You  remember  what  I  told  you 
soon  after  you  and  Jack  were  married.  But  you 
wouldn't  take  my  warning.  You  were  dead  set  on 
this  love  business.  You  said  the  hard  work  didn't 
matter.  And  look  what  it's  got  you  at  last,  Mary. 
Nothing  but  this."  And  again  her  eyes  glanced  over 
the  room. 

"It's  —  home,  Mabel,"  said  Mary  again. 

"Which  isn't  saying  much,  Mary.  I  feel  sorry  for 
you,  Mary.  Indeed  I  do !  Oh,  I  know  that  you 
think  I'm  a  snob  and  all  that.  But  I  do  feel  sorry 
for  you,  Mary.  I'm  sincere  in  saying  it.  You've 
worked  hard  all  your  life.  You  never  went  any 
where  nor  had  any  good  tunes.  You're  spending 
the  best  years  of  your  life  in  that  pokey  old  printing 
office  now,  living  out  here  in  a  lonesome  old  place 
in  the  country,  struggling  to  raise  six  boys  !  It  must 
be  awful.  If  there's  anything  I  could  do  for  you  for 
old  time's  sake,  I'd  do  it  in  a  minute.  That's  really 
the  true  reason  why  I  came  out  here  this  afternoon. 
I  heard  in  the  village  how  you  were  living  and  — 
I  came  out  to  see  if  I  couldn't  help  you  —  money 
or  something." 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  267 

"You  can't,"  replied  Mary  softly,  a  trifle  hoarsely. 
"I  said  this  was  home.  I  mean  it,  Mabel.  You 
can't  appreciate  what  that  means.  You  never  had  a 
home,  not  a  real  home.  Jack  and  I  bought  this  place 
when  we  were  young  and  life  was  all  sort  of  full  of 
hope  and  promise ;  again  you  don't  know  what  that 
means,  Mabel  —  " 

"I  was  too  wise,"  cut  in  Mabel.  "Catch  me  tying 
myself  up  to  a  man  and  having  kids  that  twist  you 
out  of  shape  and  take  away  your  good  looks  and 
make  you  dowdy  and  frumpish  and  tubby ;  but  we've 
been  all  over  that  before." 

"  —  so  you  cannot  appreciate  the  associations," 
went  on  Mary.  "  On  the  walls  here,  Mabel,  are  scars 
of  little  household  accidents  the  boys  have  made 
growing  up,  the  barks  of  their  toys  and  the  prints  of 
their  grimy  little  fingers  on  the  wall  paper  to  indicate 
the  passing  years.  Jack  died  there  in  the  east  room. 
His  casket  was  carried  out  this  door.  Every  piece 
of  furniture  is  dear  to  me,  Mabel.  Every  room  and 
door  and  window  and  corner  holds  associations  and 
sometimes,  Mabel  —  sometimes  in  the  dark  — 
there's  little  ghosts  play  around  through  these  rooms, 
Mabel  — 

"For  Gawd's  sake,  quit,  Mary.  You  talk  spook- 
ish ;  it's  enough  to  get  on  a  party's  nerves.  I  should 
think  you'd  go  crazy  living  out  here  in  this  fashion 
with  no  man  around  to  protect  you." 

"They're  dear  to  me,  these  things,  these  associa 
tions  are ;  they've  been  my  life,  Mabel.  You  can't 
live  in  one  house  a  long  time  without  every  stick  and 
stone  and  nail  in  it  bein'  sort  of  like  your  flesh  and 
blood." 

"I'm  thankful  I  haven't  got  any  associations  like 
those,  Mary.  There's  nothing  like  that  to  make  me 


268  THE   GREATER  GLORY 

miserable  on  dark  and  rainy  days.  I've  always  had 
a  good  time  and  kept  my  eye  on  the  future.  And  if 
you'd  done  the  same  I  don't  know  as  you'd  been 
living  through  this  hell  of  worry  and  work  now." 

"It  isn't  hell !"  whispered  Mary.  "It's  wicked  to 
call  it  that !  It's  —  it's  —  heaven,  Mabel.  It's  the 
nearest  thing  to  earthly  heaven  I  know.  I  love  —  it 
—  so!" 

"You  always  were  sort  of  sickishly  sentimental; 
I  say  it  again.  I  told  you  so  the  day  after  I  got  back 
from  my  own  wedding  trip.  My  way  was  best, 
Mary.  After  all  is  said  and  done  you  can't  deny  I've 
made  a  success  of  my  life.  Never  mind  what  people 
say  —  all  the  same  I  know  that  I  have.  I've  had  a 
good  time  all  along ;  I've  enjoyed  life ;  I've  been  to 
Europe  seven  times,  Mary.  I've  seen  the  world  and 
life.  Right  now  I'm  free  to  come  and  go;  I  get  a 
salary  in  five  figures  a  year  for  my  concert  work. 
I  have  my  automobile  and  my  apartments  in  the 
city- 

"And  what  else,  Mabel?" 

"What  else?  What  else  is  there  to  have ?  What 
do  you  mean  ?" 

"You've  got  all  that  as  you  say.  But  what  else. 
You've  got  no  one  to  care  about  you ;  no  one  to  love 
you—" 

"Haven't  I,  though?  Don't  be  too  sure  about 
that,  Mary." 

"You've  no  children  or  nothing?" 

"No,  I  haven't  got  any  kids,  but  good  Lord  why 
do  you  persist  in  placing  such  a  lot  of  emphasis  on 
kids?  Anybody'd  think  that  kids  were  the  only 
concern  a  woman  could  have  in  the  world  ?" 

"According  to  the  way  I  look  at  things,  they  are, 
Mabel." 


THE   GREATER  GLORY  269 

"Well,  I  place  a  different  value  on  things.  For 
instance,  there's  Dick  Robinson  — " 

"Yes,  but  what's  he  to  you,  Mibb?  Merely  a 
rich  man.  It  isn't  like  sons  or  daughters  of  your  own 
who  care  for  you  because  of  what  you've  done  for 
them." 

"Then  it  might  interest  you  to  know  that  I  expect 
to  marry  him  —  Dick  Robinson  —  in  the  not  too 
distant  future." 

"Marry  him!" 

"Yes,  marry  him  !  And  why  shouldn't  I  ?  Haven't 
I  been  through  enough  so  I  deserve  the  haven  of  a 
good  husband's  love  at  last?  I'll  never  have  any 
brats,  it's  true.  But  again  I  say,  that  to  me  brats 
never  stood  for  nothing  but  pain  and  worry  and  care. 
No,  sir;  folks  don't  know  it  yet  and  I  don't  intend 
they  should.  But  if  things  work  around  all  right  — 
and  I  rather  calculate  that  if  I  have  anything  to  say 
about  them  they  will  —  I'm  going  to  marry  Dick 
Robinson  next  year  and  come  into  my  share  of  his 
money  — " 

"Always  money,  money,  money!  You  haven't 
changed  a  great  lot,  have  you,  Mabel  ?" 

"I  said  I'd  take  my  chances  with  money  and  I 
have.  I  haven't  fared  so  badly.  Can  you  say  the 
same,  Mary  Wood  ?" 

"I'm  —  satisfied,"  breathed  Mary  at  last. 

"But  you  can't  make  me  believe  it,  Mary.  No 
sensible,  high-strung,  sensitive  woman  could  possibly 
be  satisfied  with  this,  not  when  they've  slaved  like 
you've  slaved." 

"I'm  —  satisfied,"  breathed  Mary  again.  "I 
can't  understand  you,  Mabel.  I  never  could. 
Somehow  it  seems  at  times  as  if  you  ain't  really  truly 
woman.'3 


270  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

"Don't  lose  any  sleep  over  me,  Mary.  I'm  ca 
pable  of  taking  care  of  myself.  I  think  I've  proved 
it.  I'm  going  to  prove  it  some  more  — 

"I  hate  to  say  it,  Mabel;  you're  an  old  girlhood 
friend  of  mine,  almost  the  only  one  that's  left  out  of 
the  old  crowd.  But  you're  —  you're  —  selfish,  Ma 
bel.  You've  always  been  selfish  —  " 

"  We  won't  indulge  in  personalities,  Mary.  I  came 
out  here  in  the  best  spirit  possible  to  see  if  there  was 
anything  I  could  do  for  you." 

"There  isn't,  Mabel.  Not  anything.  I'm  not 
ungrateful.  I've  lived  my  life  in  my  own  way  and 
after  my  own  standards.  If  I  was  to  go  back  and  live 
it  over  there  isn't  hardly  a  day  or  an  hour  of  it  that 
I'd  live  differently." 

"Some  folks  do  have  such  queer  ideas,"  observed 
Mabel,  fixing  her  hair  in  the  back. 

"Then  you  got  a  divorce,  did  you,  from  Herbert  ?" 

"Herbert?  Oh,  yes,  you  mean  the  elephantine 
person  of  the  male  sex  with  whom  I  once  com 
mitted  a  rash  girlish  act.  Certainly  I  got  a  divorce 
from  him,  while  I  was  out  in  California  in  'ninety- 
four." 

"And  you  never  heard  what  became  of  him  ?" 

"No,  why  should  I  ?     What  is  he  to  me  ?" 

"He  was  your  husband,  Mabel." 

Mabel  laughed,  a  contemptuous  laugh. 

"Heavens,  but  you  are  old-fashioned  !  In  my  set, 
a  woman  who  hasn't  had  two  or  three  husbands 
simply  isn't  in  the  swim,  at  all." 

"I  wouldn't  care  much  for  those  in  your  set,  Mabel, 
I'm  afraid." 

"Nor  they  for  you,  either.  Oh,  for  heaven's  sake, 
can't  you  and  I  come  together  without  fighting  over 
this  disgusting  subject  of  domesticity?  You  make 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  271 

me   mad !      What's    your  life,  anyway  ?      Tell   me 
that!" 

"My  life,"  answered  Mary  quietly,  "is  working 
to  raise  six  live-wire  boys  to  be  good  men.  When 
that  is  done,  my  life-work  is  completed.  That's 
been  my  'career '  -  —  at  least  up  to  the  present  and  I 
can't  change  it  now.  There's  been  frightfully  cruel 
moments  in  it.  But  there's  been  frightfully  dear 
and  precious  moments  too.  After  all,  keeping  a 
home  and  raising  children  is  a  woman's  work  in  the 
world,  and  if  she  isn't  content  to  accept  it,  she  hasn't 
any  business  being  a  woman.  I  can't  for  the  life  of 
me  see  why  —  wrhen  God  made  woman  for  that  — 
there  should  be  so  much  fault-finding  and  discontent 
and  dissatisfaction  among  them  and  wanting  to  be 
something  else.  Somehow  the  women  folks  nowa 
days  think  it's  a  curse  on  a  woman  that  she  is  a  wo 
man  and  they're  trying  their  best  to  be  men.  But 
somehow  I've  observed,  Mabel,  that  there's  nothing 
but  unhappiness  and  heart-hunger  beneath  it  all, 
and  a  fault-finding  with  the  men  folks,  society  and 
God  —  everybody  and  everything  but  themselves  — 
with  selfishness  at  the  bottom  of  it  and  a  cowardly 
shrinking  from  some  of  the  noble  duties  of  life  just 
because  they  want  a  pleasant  time  and  good  looks 
and  nonsense.  I've  been  through  the  experience  of 
motherhood  six  times,  Mabel.  And  I've  buried  a 
husband.  But  along  with  it  all  there's  come  a  satis 
faction  and  a  peace,  a  resignation  if  you  want  to 
call  it  that,  Mabel,  that's  ample  to  repay  it  all.  I've 
tried  not  to  shirk ;  I've  tried  to  do  my  duty  and  am  as 
happy  as  I  know  how  to  be,  while  doing  it.  And  I'm 
not  galivanting  around,  looking  for  happiness  through 
dollars  or  marrying  rich  men  or  fearful  of  losing  my 
good  looks  and  all  such  nonsense.  I'm  not  looking 


272  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

for  happiness,  because  I've  got  it,  Mabel.  I've  got  a 
happiness  now  that  nothing  in  life  can  take  away. 
Maybe  I  haven't  seen  Europe  seven  times ;  probably 
I'll  never  see  Europe  or  any  other  place  but  Paris, 
Vermont.  But  I've  seen  other  things  that  you've 
never  seen  and  it  isn't  given  you  to  see,  Mabel,  and  it's 
plenty.  Don't  waste  any  pity  on  me,  Mabel.  Pity 
yourself.  You're  a  lonely  woman ;  you're  the  lonely 
one,  not  me.  I  can  read  it  in  your  face,  Mabel.  And 
may  the  kind  Father  have  mercy  on  you.  You  need 
it,  Mabel,  indeed.  You  need  it  but  you  don't 
know  it." 

"This  is  all  one  gets  for  trying  to  be  neighborly 
and  helpful  for  old  time's  sake,"  Mabel  replied  wrath- 
fully.  "  Well,  as  we  both  seem  to  be  satisfied  with  our 
lots,  Mary,  I  might  as  well  call  my  visit  at  an  end 
and  go." 

She  arose  stiffly  and  she  did  go.  But  as  she  rolled 
back  to  town  she  knew  deep  in  her  heart  that  Mary 
Wood  had  spoken  the  truth. 

"My  Gawd!"  she  cried  suddenly  and  miserably, 
"I'd  give  all  the  Robinson  millions  I'm  coming  into 
next  year  just  to  have  the  peace  that's  on  Mary 
Purse's  face !" 

She  meant  what  she  said  though  there  was  no 
one  to  hear. 


CHAPTER 

THE  MILLS  OF  THE  GODS  KEEP  GRINDING,  GRIND 
ING,  GRINDING,  AND  FIVE  COUNTRY  FOLK  JOURNEY 
TO  THE  CITY  TO  LOOK  UPON  ITS  TINSEL  FOR  A 
MOMENT. 

THERE  were  two  times  in  those  years  when  she  was 
raising  her  youngsters  that  Mary  Purse  went  away 
from  home  on  a  vacation.  The  first  was  the  two  weeks 
that  she  spent  with  an  aunt  of  Jack's  up  in  North 
Sidney,  taking  the  boys  on  a  never-to-be-forgotten 
visit.  The  second  was  the  time  that  she  went  with 
Sam  Hod  and  myself  and  our  wives  down  to  Boston 
to  the  famous  Fair  in  the  old  Mechanics'  Hall. 

This  tired  scribe  has  forgotten  now  exactly  how 
it  was  that  we  happened  to  go  and  take  Mary.  I 
think  she  had  broken  down  temporarily  after  Fred 
had  the  scarlet  fever  and  for  a  week  or  so,  just  after 
Tom  left  for  college,  and  fearing  for  her  health, 
I  think  we  utilized  our  railroad  passes  —  freely  issued 
to  newspapermen  in  those  halcyon  days  of  country 
journalism  —  and  made  Mary  the  fifth  of  our  party. 

But  if  we  of  the  office  have  forgotten  the  little 
details  of  how  Mary  chanced  to  be  with  us,  em 
phatically  we  have  not  forgotten  what  happened  on 
that  trip  and  the  pathos  of  the  girl  who  married  Jack 
Purse  for  love — in  one  situation  that  came  from  that 
journey. 

For  we  saw  the  Great  Zola  —  the  Truman  woman, 
nee  Henderson  —  in  all  her  glory. 


274  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

It  was  Sam  who  found  the  notice  in  a  newspaper 
as  we  lounged  late  one  winter's  afternoon  in  the 
lobby  of  the  old  Parker  House. 

"The  famous  contralto,  the  Great  Zola  !"  he  cried. 
"Sufferin5  Moses,  Bill,  do  you  suppose  that  could  be 
Mibb?" 

"What  about  the  famous  contralto,  the  Great 
Zola?" 

"She's  singing  here  !  She's  giving  a  concert  here 
to-night!" 

We  read  the  advertisement.  We  passed  it  to  our 
women  folk  and  to  Mary.  It  was  Mary  who  turned 
the  page  in  a  trifle  of  bewilderment  and  uncertainty, 
and  we  fancied  a  bit  of  wistfulness.  It  chanced 
then  that  she  turned  open  the  pages  of  the  theatrical 
section.  From  the  page  a  picture  stared  at  us. 
There  was  no  mistaking  that  picture.  It  was  indeed 
Mibb  —  Mabel  of  our  office.  Beneath  was  the 
usual  press-agent  write-up  of  Mibb's  wonderful 
talent. 

"It  sort  of  slops  over,"  declared  Sam  disgustedly. 
"All  the  same,  if  she  can  sing  now  as  she  sang  in  the 
old  days,  she's  certainly  some  warbler.  Folks ! 
Let's  go  to  that  concert." 

Mary  whitened  a  trifle.  She  bit  a  soft  lip.  Then 
a  forced  smile  broke  over  her  careworn  countenance. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "let's  go  to  that  concert.  Let's 
go  and  hear  Mibb  sing  in  public." 

We  went. 

We  secured  five  tickets  from  sidewalk  brokers.  I 
think  we  paid  five  dollars  apiece  for  them.  Sam  made 
a  grimace  as  he  gave  up  the  money. 

Mary  was  careworn  and  a  trifle  shabby  as  of  old, 
though  not  from  preference,  the  good  Lord  knows  in 
His  heart.  She  had  matured  into  mellow  matron- 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  275 

hood ;  the  gray  was  beginning  to  be  more  and  more 
noticeable  now  in  her  hair ;  her  face  was  a  trifle  sal 
low;  her  hands  were  growing  gnarled,  alas,  like  her 
mother's.  The  five  of  us  made  somewhat  of  a 
shoddy  appearance  in  that  patrician  Bostonese 
audience. 

As  we  sat  there,  from  the  corner  of  an  eye  I  saw 
Mary  watching  those  Boston  folks.  Then,  poor  soul, 
I  knew  by  the  expression  on  her  face  that  she  was 
comparing  herself  with  them  and  finding  poor  conso 
lation  in  the  comparison.  She  pulled  at  her  sleeves, 
fixed  her  hair,  arranged  a  frail  little  bit  of  ribbon  at 
her  throat.  But  it  was  all  poor  excuse  at  best  for 
the  lack  of  finery  —  real  finery  —  which  the  starved 
woman  heart  of  her  craved.  A  feeling  of  sadness 
came  over  me  and  a  sympathy  for  Mary  in  that 
moment  such  as  I  had  not  felt  before,  verily  not  even 
on  that  afternoon  of  Jack  Purse's  burial.  As  that 
evening  went  on  that  sympathy  for  her  increased  — 
increased  in  just  that  proportion  that  Mibb  was 
beautiful  where  Mary  was  shabby  and  shoddy. 

For  Mibb  was  beautiful,  at  least  from  where  our 
usher  had  seated  us.  Distance  may  have  lent  en 
chantment  or  it  may  have  been  Mibb's  war-paint  in 
her  battle  with  life.  Perhaps  it  was  her  purple  and 
fine  linen.  Anyway  when  she  finally  came  on  to  the 
platform  Sam  at  my  side  emitted  a  low  whistle. 

"Oh,  for  Uncle  Joe  Fodder !"  the  editor  declared. 
"I  wonder  what  remark  he  would  make  to  look  upon 
Mibb  Henderson  now  ?" 

Mibb  had  grown  stouter.  She  also  had  mellowed, 
at  least  in  her  figure.  In  her  black,  low  cut  gown, 
high  coiffure  and  diamond  bespangled  fingers,  the 
"nine-o'clock  girl"  of  our  little  town  was  not  the 
nine-o'clock  girl  at  all,  but  a  gorgeous  creature  out- 


276  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

matching  Solomon  in  all  his  glory,  providing  that 
Solomon  ever  arrayed  himself  in  black,  low-cut 
gowns,  high  coiffures  and  slipped  clusters  of  fire  gems 
with  reckless  abandon  on  his  fingers. 

"She's  took  to  painting  and  powdering,"  remarked 
Alice  Hod  in  a  hoarse  whisper,  "and  her  hair  is  dyed 
or  I'm  a  carrot!" 

"Well,  she's  no  amateur  at  it,"  remarked  her 
husband  enthusiastically.  "The  days  when  she  used 
to  keep  a  little  square  of  mirror  in  her  P-case  and 
primp  herself  between  locals  have  certainly  turned 
to  her  advantage."  He  said  it  in  an  extra-loud 
voice,  for  the  great  audience  was  applauding  enthusi 
astically  and  Mibb  was  nodding  and  acknowledging 
their  tribute  just  a  wee  bit  indifferently.  Something 
of  her  old  contempt  for  her  talent  remained  in  her 
carriage  in  public.  A  tall,  lean,  lank  young  man, 
whom  Sam  declared  resembled  a  string  bean  in  a 
dress  suit,  hurried  across  stage,  carrying  an  immense 
white  handkerchief,  spun  the  piano  stool  as  though  in  a 
hurry  to  have  it  done  and  it  was  something  to  be 
ashamed  of  doing  in  public,  seated  himself  and  tinkled 
a  few  bars  of  piano  music.  And  Mibb,  poised  rather 
languidly  at  thd  corner  of  the  baby-grand  piano  with 
the  raised  cover,  began  to  sing. 

She  sang  that  old  song,  "Stars  of  the  Summer 
Night." 

"Remember  where  we  folks  heard  that  song  last?" 
Sam  demanded. 

"At  the  party  up  in  Gold-piece  Cabin,"  returned 
Alice.  "Frank  played  it  on  his  violin  !"  Then  she 
dented  one  of  her  husband's  ribs  with  her  elbow. 
"But  you  keep  quiet,"  she  admonished.  "We  want 
to  hear  this  music  ! " 

I  looked  at  Mary  Purse.     Her  head  was  slightly  on 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  277 

one  side.  Her  work-hardened  hands  were  relaxed  in 
her  lap.  Her  eyes  were  fixed  on  Mibb  hungrily. 
When  Alice  Hod  leaned  over  and  criticized  some 
thing  in  Mibb's  toilet,  she  merely  nodded  sadly. 
In  that  moment  I  was  sorry  that  we  had  at 
tended  this  entertainment  and  brought  Mary.  For 
Mibb's  materialistic  philosophy  may  have  been 
faulty  as  an  abstract  problem  in  metaphysics,  but  it 
had  brought  her  success,  while  Mary's  had  brought 
her  seemingly  but  work  and  sorrow  and  red  hands 
and  a  care-lined  face  and  raiment  that  was  only 
cheap  serge  and  shoddy. 

The  audience  applauded  when  Mibb  finished,  as 
audiences  have  had  a  habit  of  doing  out  of  the  ages 
eternal  when  the  applause  was  for  the  social  idol  or 
artist  of  the  moment  and  their  work  on  the  whole 
was  passing  fair.  And  Mibb  sang  the  encore  —  the 
song  is  immaterial  —  and  was  applauded  again,  and 
the  string  bean  came  in  for  his  portion  of  it ;  and  then 
both  had  some  more  and  Mibb  swished  off  the  plat 
form  and  back  on  again  and  consulted  with  the 
string  bean  and  the  string  bean  nodded  and  began 
again  and  we  had  still  more  music. 

The  concert  only  lasted  an  hour.  But  toward 
the  close  of  that  hour,  Mibb  sang  two  songs  that 
demonstrated  only  too  plainly  that  it  was  not  alone 
her  voice  which  had  brought  her  fame,  but  the  dis 
cretion  employed  in  her  selections.  For  they  had 
been  chosen  to  answer  the  age-old  yearning  in  the 
hearts  of  tired  men  and  women,  patrician  or  no,  for 
the  scenes  and  faces  and  heart-hopes  of  days  that 
have  gone  with  the  long  ago.  She  sang  "Silver 
Threads  Among  the  Gold"  and  for  an  encore  followed 
it  with  that  beautiful  simple  old  ballad,  "Home, 
Sweet  Home." 


278  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

A  vast  hush  fell  over  the  audience.  Even  a 
dreamy  daze  came  over  the  features  of  the  string 
bean  at  the  piano,  as  Mibb  sang  it  and  his  fingers 
followed  her  on  the  keys.  Sam's  chin  sank  lower  and 
lower  into  his  chest.  There  was  no  coughing,  no 
rustling  of  programs.  Mibb  cast  a  spell  over  that 
throng  and  even  the  most  sophisticated  for  the  moment 
could  not  break  away.  And  the  spell  was  no  less 
thrown  over  the  hearts  and  minds  of  five  ordinary 
country  folk  down  in  the  front  seats  of  that 
theater. 

Mibb  did  not  wait  for  applause  to  spoil  the  effect 
she  had  created.  She  passed  quickly  though  equally 
quietly  to  "Home,  Sweet  Home." 

Mary  Purse  put  her  handkerchief  quickly  to  her 
lips.  Then  it  went  up  to  her  eyes  and  she  held  it 
there. 

Only  two  men  in  that  audience  fancied  they  knew 
why  Mibb  put  such  feeling  into  her  last  song. 

Somehow  we  wished  we  were  all  out  of  that  place 
and  up  in  the  familiar  old  streets  of  Paris,  Vermont. 

Was  the  applause  deafening  ?     It  was  ! 

They  would  not  let  Mibb  go  off  that  platform. 
They  called  for  her  again  and  again.  And  again  and 
again  she  had  to  respond.  A  bouquet  of  flowers 
came  down  the  left  aisle,  somewhere  under  the  mass 
a  human  being  carried  along  by  legs.  Another  came 
down  the  right  aisle.  Wave  after  wave  of  approval 
swept  down  from  the  balconies  and  back  again. 

"And  to  think,"  said  Sam  hoarsely,  "that  that 
Queen  of  Sheba  once  worked  in  our  printing  office  !" 

Sam  wanted  to  go  back-stage  and  see  Mibb  and 
visit  with  her  but  Alice  would  not  have  it. 

"Because,  to  me  she'll  always  be  the  same  old  Mibb 
Henderson,  never  mind  how  high  she  flies.  I 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  279 

couldn't  bring  myself  to  rave  over  her  and  congratu 
late  her  as  I  suppose  I  ought/' 

But  Mary  said  nothing.  With  the  same  wistful 
look  ever  on  her  face,  she  went  with  us  out  of  that 
theater. 

When  we  got  back  to  the  hotel  she  complained  of  a 
headache  and  went  almost  at  once  to  her  rooms. 
Alice,  who  had  cause  to  go  down  the  hotel  cor 
ridor  afterward,  said  the  light  was  burning  under 
Mary's  adjacent  door  until  well  into  the  morning. 

She  came  back  to  Paris  with  us  and  took  up  the 
burden  of  her  life  again  before  a  grimy  type  case, 
earning  the  wherewithal  to  raise  those  boys  which 
Jack  had  left  her,  in  the  dumb,  hopeless,  unsung 
heroism  of  plain  people  doing  plain  tasks  because 
that  is  their  destiny. 

But  as  for  Mibb,  she  went  on,  onward  and  upward, 
from  Glory  unto  Glory. 

Going  home  on  the  train  I  said  to  Sam  : 

"I  feel  that  we  should  have  gone  back  and  made 
ourselves  known  to  Mibb.  There  was  something 
about  the  way  she  sang  that  'Home,  Sweet  Home' 
that  tells  me  she  would  have  been  glad  to  see  us." 

"See  her?  Of  course  I  saw  her,"  Sam  answered. 
"I  waited  until  Alice  had  gone  to  our  room  and  then 
made  an  excuse  I  wanted  a  lunch,  to  go  back  and  see 
her.  And  who  do  you  suppose  I  found  with  her  ?" 

"Who?"  I  demanded. 

"Dick  Robinson.  You  remember  Dick  whom  she 
once  turned  down  when  he  proposed  to  her  back  in 
Paris  before  she  married  Herb  for  his  money  ?" 

Certainly  I  remembered  Dick. 

"But  you  wouldn't  know  him,"  went  on  Sam. 
"I  hardly  knew  him  myself.  He's  changed,  Dick 
has.  He's  grown  hard  and  cynical  and  there  are 


THE   GREATER  GLORY 

creases  in  his  face.  He  was  waiting  in  her  dressing 
room  for  her." 

"In  her  dressing  room  !" 

"Yes,  and  Mibb  was  disrobing  almost  in  front  of 
him  as  though  it  were  the  most  commonplace  thing 
in  the  world.  It  —  sort  of  disgusted  me ;  that's  why 
I  haven't  said  much  about  it.  A  pair  of  corsets  was 
hanging  over  the  back  of  the  chair  in  which  Dick 
was  sitting  dawdling  his  cane." 

We  were  alone  temporarily  in  the  smoker.  We 
rode  for  a  few  minutes  in  silence. 

"Well?"  I  said. 

"They  wanted  me  to  go  out  with  them  and  have  a 
feed  and  some  drinks.  I  didn't  go.  Bill,"  said  the 
editor  suddenly,  "do  you  suppose  Mary  Purse  was 
envious  of  Mibb  as  the  crowd  was  applauding  last 
night  and  the  bouquets  coming  down  the  aisles  ?" 

"Mary's  only  human,  like  the  rest  of  us,"  I 
answered.  Then  I  said:  "Let's  see,  Dick  never 
married,  did  he  ?" 

But  Sam  did  not  hear.  He  answered  his  own 
question : 

"Strange,"  he  remarked,  "that  it  should  be  old 
Harve  Henderson's  daughter  who'll  get  that  gold- 
piece  ! " 

We  told  Uncle  Joe  Fodder  about  it  in  the  office  the 
next  day. 

"Vengeance  is  mine ;  I  will  repay,  saith  the  Lord," 
was  the  only  comment  the  old  man  made.  Which 
was  queer. 

"  Mibb  told  me  she  was  starting  on  another  grand 
continental  tour  in  the  spring,"  said  Sam,  as  the 
train  drew  into  Paris  on  that  ride  home. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

As  THE  MILLS  OP  THE  GODS  GRIND  SLOWLY  THERE 
COMES  A  SUDDEN  OMINOUS  BUMP  IN  THE  MACHIN 
ERY  AND  THOSE  WHO  ARE  LISTENING  FEEL  THAT 
SOMETHING  HAS  GONE  WRONG  SOMEWHERE  OR  A 
SUBSTANCE  GONE  BETWEEN  THE  STONES  THAT 
HAS  BEEN  ANNIHILATED  MERCILESSLY. 

IT  is  time  to  close  the  second  portion  of  this  story 
now,  but  before  we  write  "Part  the  Third"  at  the  top 
of  a  new  sheet  of  foolscap,  let  us  set  down  here  one 
grim  anecdote  that  stands  out  in  jagged  red  and  per 
haps  in  the  general  scheme  of  things  adds  some  poor 
measure  of  consolation. 

We  have  never  been  able  to  get  the  exact  details. 
We  have  only  the  strange  little  morsels  of  gossip 
which  are  bound  to  drift  back  to  a  little  country  town 
to  be  tossed  to  and  fro  over  family  teacups.  And 
.combining  these  with  the  story  which  Dick  Robinson 
told  Judge  Farmer  one  night  down  at  the  Banker's 
Club  in  New  York,  we  can  collect  a  pretty  fair  amount 
of  evidence  upon  which  to  build  the  tragedy. 

On  a  certain  rainy  October  night  in  a  far  western 
city,  "Madame  Zola"  ended  her  concert  and  started 
from  the  rear  of  the  theater  through  the  alley  to  her 
hansom.  The  light  over  the  stage  door  fell  aslant 
a  hallway  opening  into  a  cheap  rooming  house  across 
the  alley.  She  was  about  to  pass  this  hallway  when  a 
burly  figure  turned  in  from  the  sidewalk  and  passed 
her.  Something  in  his  walk  arrested  her.  She 


282  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

stopped  in  the  foggy  drizzle  and  stepped  back  in 
voluntarily.  As  she  did  so,  the  burly  man  raised 
his  head. 

The  woman's  body  went  cold  all  over.  She  gasped 
a  fearful  word.  The  man  halted  and  peered  at  her. 

"Herbert!"  she  whispered. 

He  was  big  and  rough  and  unshaven  and  drunk  — 
exceedingly  drunk.  He  swayed  unsteadily  in  the 
mist  and  the  light  over  the  stage  door  she  had  just 
quitted  made  an  auriole  of  iridescent  color  above  his 
battered  derby  hat. 

But  he  seemed  to  come  to  himself  as  she  spoke  his 
name  in  that  awful  voice  resulting  from  the  terrific 
shock  of  her  surprise. 

"Who's  callin'  me  Herbert?  Me?  Huh!  Ain't 
heard  that  name  for  years  and  years,  I  ain't !  " 

They  faced  each  other  in  the  dripping  semi-dark, 
she  rich,  cultured,  seemingly  patrician  to  her  finger 
tips  in  the  harness  of  her  stage  dress ;  he  slovenly, 
broken  down,  just  an  odd  fish  cast  up  from  the  great 
sea  of  derelict  city  life. 

"You!  "he  cried.     "You!     You!     You!" 

She  did  not  know  what  to  say.  Strength  and 
voice  apparently  had  deserted  her. 

"What  are  you  doin'  here?"  he  demanded 
ominously.  "Ain't  you  done  me  'nough  damage 
already  without  followin'  me  here?  Tell  me  that? 
Ain't  you?" 

"I  —  I  haven't  followed  you  here,  you  fool!" 
she  managed  to  gasp  at  last.  "Where  have  you 
been?  Where  did  you  go  to?  It's  you  that  needs 
calling  to  account.  You  deserted  me  —  left  me 
penniless.  If  I  hadn't  been  clever  I  might  have 
starved ! " 

"You  say  that,  after  what  you  done  to  me  and 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  283 

my  money !  If  you  hadn't  been  clever  you  might 
have  starved.  Clever !  Clever !  Yes,  you  was 
clever  !  You  was  damned  clever  !  You  cheat,  you  I 
You  cheat!" 

"  Stop  it,  you  fool !  Don't  you  know  you'll  wake 
the  whole  city  and  start  a  scandal?  Lower  your 
voice,  I  tell  you  ! " 

He  supported  himself  with  one  hand  against  some 
old  iron  pipes  piled  against  the  near-by  brick  wall  of 
the  theater.  He  was  weak,  too,  with  the  tremen 
dous  surprise  of  that  meeting  but  with  a  far  different 
kind  of  surprise.  He  was  trying  to  collect  his 
dazed  senses.  And  something  was  getting  away 
from  him.  He  was  losing  control  of  the  great  brute 
animal  within  him  which  drink  and  abuse  of  the 
years  had  nurtured.  Before  him  he  fancied  he  was 
seeing  the  cause  of  all  his  life's  misery.  And  the 
devil  was  over  his  shoulder,  pushing  him  on. 

"Fine  lady,  ain't  you?  Fine,  fine  lady!  Them 
geegaws  and  everything  —  fine,  fine  lady  !  What 
man  paid  for  'em,  you  —  ?  "  and  he  said  a  word  that 
struck  the  woman  as  a  blow  across  her  mouth. 

She  backed  away  and  went  white  to  the  lips. 

"You  call  me  that,  you  vagrant!  you  gutter 
snipe! —  you  —  you  bum!"  she  screamed,  for 
getting  her  own  admonition  of  a  moment  before. 

"Yes,  me  call  you  that !"  he  retorted.  "Me  call 
you  that !  Me  call  you  that !  And  why  shouldn't 
I  ?  "  And  his  voice  was  like  the  roar  of  a  bull. 

"No  man  paid  for  them,"  she  retorted  in  deadly 
voice.  "I'm  paying  my  own  way  —  with  my  voice, 
—  and  no  thanks  to  a  dirty  street  loafer  fit  only 
for  the  gutter  ! " 

"And  who  sent  me  to  the  gutter  ?  "  he  cried  wildly, 
choking  on  his  words.  Again  he  repeated  the 


284  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

unprintable  word.  "Who  sent  me  to  the  gutter? 
Who  but  a  hell-cat  with  a  heart  o'  ice  that  bled  me 
dry  and  cheated  me  from  bein'  a  man?  Tell  me 
that!  Oh,  you  .she-devil!  Oh,  you  she-devil!" 
And  he  lurched  forward. 

"Lay  one  of  your  dirty  fingers  on  me  and  you'll 
go  to  jail  for  life !"  she  cried  hysterically. 

He  did  not  reply  this  time.  He  simply  swayed 
there  with  a  wild  unhealthy  light  burning  suddenly 
behind  his  bloodshot  eyes. 

Then  in  the  next  instant  he  lurched  at  her.  With 
the  agility  of  insanity,  despite  his  size  he  lurched  at 
her,  as  though  all  the  accumulated  misery  and 
heartaches  and  vicissitudes  of  the  years  were  his 
to  avenge  on  human  flesh  and  blood  at  last.  It  was 
as  though  he  had  been  waiting  years  and  years  for 
exactly  that  moment. 

He  sprang  at  her  and  she  screamed.  She  screamed 
terribly.  Some  men  heard  it  in  the  next  block  and 
came  a-running.  Some  people  in  the  lodging  house 
above  heard  it  also  and  ran  for  the  windows  and 
peered  fearfully  downward.  A  policeman  heard 
it  over  in  front  of  the  corner  saloon  out  on  the  main 
street  and  meditated  whether  he  should  go  swiftly 
to  where  it  sounded  or  turn  discreetly  down  the  side 
thoroughfare. 

For  when  poor  Herb  Truman  lurched  his  burly 
weight  upon  the  wife  of  his  young  manhood,  he  held 
in  his  scabby  fist  one  of  the  short  ugly  pieces  of  pipe 
that  had  been  piled  beneath  his  hand  against  the 
wall  of  the  theater. 

He  beat  her  down,  once,  twice,  three  times  he 
belted  at  her  —  terribly,  horribly. 

The  pipe  crunched  on  soft  human  flesh  nauseat- 
ingly.  It  had  a  ragged  end  and  full  in  her  unpro- 


THE   GREATER  GLORY  285 

tected  face  the  Henderson  girl  received  it.  A  man 
in  the  lodging  house  above  stairs  testified  next  day 
that  he  saw  the  assailant  stamp  on  the  woman's 
prostrate  body  after  she  had  fallen  inert  on  the 
cement  floor  of  the  alleyway.  But  he  was  recover 
ing  from  a  three-day  indiscretion  himself  and  his 
testimony  may  not  be  entirely  trustworthy. 

Anyhow,  when  help  did  arrive,  headed  by  the 
policeman  who  had  decided  to  do  his  duty,  seven 
men  found  one  woman  battered  into  insensibility, 
weltering  in  a  great  sickening  pool  of  human  blood, 
and  her  features  horribly  mashed  by  a  blunt  in 
strument  thrown  or  dropped  into  the  open  doorway 
of  that  lodging  house  hall. 

And  though  the  lodging  house  and  the  city  were 
searched,  they  did  not  find  the  assailant. 

Three  months  later  a  woman  was  discharged  from 
the  hospital  in  that  city  with  a  face  a  hideous  thing 
to  behold,  one  side  of  her  mouth  drawn  together  and 
closed  permanently. 

As  Uncle  Joe  Fodder  had  often  remarked :  "Ven 
geance  is  mine ;  I  will  repay,  saith  the  Lord/' 


PART  III 


EVENING 
CHAPTER  I 

IN  WHICH  WE  CONSIDER  THE  CHANGES  TIME  HAS 
WROUGHT  IN  THE  LAST  TWENTY  YEARS  AND  FOR 
THE  LAST  TIME,  PRAISE  GOD,  SEE  MARY  PURSE 
BEARING  NOBLY  THE  LAST  GREAT  DISAPPOINT 
MENT  OF  HER  LIFE. 

ACCORDING  to  Joe  Bardwell  —  the  Joseph  Bard- 
well  —  a  Paris  man  who  has  gained  fame  with  two 
novels  and  interminable  short  stories  so  that  his 
name  is  often  on  the  magazine  covers  of  Service's 
News  Room,  —  according  to  Joseph  Bardwell  who 
is  in  a  place  to  know,  the  most  difficult  part  of 
writing  a  book  is  to  convey  skilfully  and  convinc 
ingly  the  passing  of  time. 

This  is  especially  true  if  the  narrative  covers  the 
entire  lives  of  a  group  of  people.  Due  allowance 
must  be  made  "for  them  periods  when  nothin* 
didn't  happen",  as  Uncle  Joe  Fodder  would  put  it. 
For  there  are  such  times  in  the  lives  of  all  of  us. 
Comedy  and  tragedy  leave  such  a  terrific  effect  upon 
us  because  they  break  in  upon  lives  that  are  running 
the  even  tenor  of  their  way,  careers  that  on  the  whole 
are  uniformly  quiet  and  prosaic.  They  are  the 
paragraph  marks  and  chapter-headings  in  the  jour 
nal  of  existence. 

Coming  down  to  concrete  things  and  following  the 
lives  of  the  particular  people  with  whom  our  story 


290  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

has  to  do,  we  may  say  without  fear  of  successful 
contradiction  that  the  years  from  1896  to  1912  saw 
more  changes  in  American  life  than  any  other  period 
in  the  history  of  our  people  or  our  nation.  We  can 
close  the  files  here  now  and  lay  them  back  on  top 
the  green  box  safe.  All  too  vividly  memory  will 
serve  us  and  as  for  the  rest,  our  story  must  come 
down  for  its  close  into  modern  times. 

The  first  thing  of  which  we  have  taken  note  is  the 
change  in  the  life  of  our  town,  which  is  a  counterpart 
of  hundreds  of  American  towns  scattered  all  over 
the  continent.  Business  blocks  went  up  several 
stories  and  wooden  structures  descended  under  the 
crowbar  of  the  building  wrecker.  We  paved  Main 
Street  and  built  a  jail.  Fat,  sociable,  boxlike  old 
houses  painted  dirty  white  gave  way  to  cupolas  and 
bay  windows  and  softer  hues  and  trimmings.  We 
razed  our  white  picket  fences  and  allowed  our  lawns 
a  breathing  chance.  We  bought  a  fire  truck  and 
a  policeman's  uniform  and  made  Mike  Hogan,  our 
chief  of  police,  who  hitherto  had  gone  about  in  his 
suspenders,  climb  into  the  latter,  station  himself  at 
the  corner  of  Main  and  Maple  streets  Saturday 
nights  and  Sunday  afternoons  and  make  motions 
with  his  hands.  Thus  we  arose  to  the  grandeur  of 
a  traffic  cop  and  took  great  pride  in  him  until  he  had 
"bawled  us  out"  publicly  a  few  times  for  driving 
our  automobiles  with  a  light  blinked  out  and  then 
we  declared  him  a  nuisance  and  started  a  petition 
to  have  him  removed. 

In  our  homes  we  took  up  our  carpets  and  laid 
down  art  rugs.  The  graphophone  with  the  old  wax 
records  and  morning-glory  horn  was  consigned  to 
the  attic  and  in  the  corner  of  our  "libraries"  we 
installed  what  resembled  an  old-fashioned  music 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  291 

box  on  top  of  a  wine  cabinet  but  which  was  really 
Caruso  and  McCormick  and  Gluck  ready  at  a 
moment's  notice  to  fill  the  neighborhood  with  art. 
We  consigned  the  old  red  tablecloths  to  limbo  and 
went  in  for  Haviland  china.  The  less  furniture  we 
could  get  into  a  room  the  better  it  was  furnished 
and  the  prosperity  of  a  family  was  not  reckoned  by 
its  acres  but  by  the  number  of  silver  birches  on  its 
lawn  and  the  width  of  its  front  piazza,. 

Our  social  life  changed  also.  Young  people  be 
came  old  and  old  people  became  young.  The  acme 
of  ambition  for  our  rising  generation  was  to  grow  up 
and  s^hake  the  dust  of  the  place  from  their  negro- 
polished  shoes  and  dwell  amid  purple  and  fine  linen 
in  the  cities.  We  became  a  nation  of  speed  maniacs, 
and  life  insurance  statistics  on  the  insanity  rate  were 
used  to  prove  that  we  were  a  great  nation. 

And  while  these  changes  were  in  progress,  what 
shall  be  said  of  our  townsfolk  themselves  and  espe 
cially  the  folk  whose  history  we  have  followed? 
Where  are  the  folk  of  yesteryear,  indeed?  Where 
are  the  faces  we  once  knew,  the  voices  that  were 
so  familiar?  Scattered  to  the  four  corners  of  the 
tired  old  earth,  most  of  them,  or  sleeping  quietly  in 
the  cemetery  on  the  hill.  And  in  their  places  are 
strange  folk,  faces  and  voices  which  we  know  and 
yet  do  not  know,  —  upstarts  and  usurpers,  ac 
quaintances  instead  of  friends,  names  to  fill  the 
census  and  the  telephone  directory  and  not  human 
3ouls  whose  joys  were  our  joys  and  failures  our 
failures,  whose  successes  were  our  successes  and 
their  griefs  our  griefs. 

Even  the  people  of  our  narrative  are  different  folk, 
alas,  than  we  recognized  them  yesteryear.  We  are 
on  the  third  and  last  part  of  our  story  now,  —  the 


292  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

final  lap  toward  home  and  the  Greater  Glory.  And 
in  this  last  act  of  life's  play  the  make-up  of  our 
actors  must  be  changed. 

We  have  seen  Sam  Hod  a  young  newspaperman, 
very  deliberate  and  precise  in  all  he  did,  gravely 
deporting  himself,  striving  to  build  a  newspaper 
which  should  be  respected  and  sworn  by  among  all 
kinds  and  classes  everywhere.  We  look  upon  him 
now  with  his  hair  gray,  his  moustache  ragged,  his 
eyes  old  and  philosophical  and  tired.  We  have 
seen  the  people  of  our  office  young  and  careless  and 
heart-free,  thinking  only  of  the  good  time  coming 
in  the  evening  after  work.  We  look  upon  them  now 
toil-worn  and  care-bent,  with  families  and  respon 
sibilities,  going  down  the  hill  of  life  and  hugging 
closer  and  closer  in  the  evening  hours  to  their  easy 
chairs  and  rockers. 

And  what  of  the  heroine  of  this  heroless  narrative  ? 
What  of  Mary  Purse  ?  What,  indeed  ?  For  the  time 
has  come  when  we  must  also  look  on  Mary  when 
she  is  old,  for  time  spares  not  the  heroes  and  heroines 
more  than  it  does  the  adventuresses  and  villains. 

During  the  years  of  her  wifehood  and  mother 
hood  that  she  had  been  absent  from  the  office,  she 
had  altered  somewhat  from  the  nimble  girl  we  once 
had  known.  Her  hands,  once  so  deft  and  delicate 
and  slender,  had  become  red  and  stiff  and  contorted 
with  labor.  She  couldn't  set  the  "string"  of  the 
years  before.  But  she  didn't  appear  to  notice  that. 
Or  if  she  did,  she  never  mentioned  it  for  fear  she 
might  discount  herself  in  the  eyes  of  the  office 
powers  and  lose  her  place.  Day  after  day  she 
toiled  at  the  case  and  then  drove  home  at  the 
supper  hour,  and,  doing  the  housework  for  those 
growing  boys,  worked  far  into  the  night. 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  293 

Oh,  that  we  could  stop  and  set  down  here  in  detail 
some  of  the  struggles  that  woman  went  through  as 
the  seasons  went  slowly  by  and  bills  came  in  which 
must  be  paid,  and  cruel  setbacks  and  handicaps  and 
hardships  interrupted  the  noble  work  she  was 
doing,  —  work  for  which  it  seemed  there  never 
could  be  an  adequate  reward.  Sam  Hod,  who  from 
time  to  time  has  glanced  over  these  pages  while 
they  were  in  composition,  is  wrathy  indeed  that  so 
much  prominence  has  been  given  to  the  days  and 
times  and  folk  that  came  before  Jack  left  us  and 
Mary's  work  since  crowded  into  one  petty  chapter. 

"The  time  since  she  was  left  a  widow  is  the  real 
story  of  Mary  Purse,  you  fat-head,"  he  has  again 
and  again  declared. 

But  Sam  Hod  does  not  realize  that  there  is  no 
drama  in  one  aging  widow  woman  coming  into  the 
village  day  after  day  and  working  through  the 
hours  at  a  type  case  and  going  home  at  night  to 
order  the  household  for  a  family  of  growing  boys 
and  the  old  Morrow  woman.  Those  years  might 
be  replete  with  childhood  tragedies  and  bumps 
and  bruises  and  the  vagaries  of  expanding  boyhood 
and  youth,  but  they  would  only  weary  the  reader. 
Those  years  from  Jack's  passing  to  the  time  that 
the  youngest  Purse  boy  left  to  take  a  job  down  in 
Boston  are  one  of  those  periods  of  Uncle  Joe  Fod 
der's  when  "nothin'  didn't  happen."  All  we  can 
set  down  is  that  she  did  her  task  somehow,  —  the 
task  almost  beyond  her  strength,  and  yet  a  task  in 
which  will  power  and  mother  love  and  her  husband's 
memory  triumphed  and  which  she  completed. 
And  her  only  remuneration  as  she  went  along  was 
the  fervent  hope  that  Thomas  Joshua  would  not 
fail  her,  —  that  he  would  turn  out  a  preacher. 


294  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

But  we  might  as  well  have  it  first  as  last :  Tom 
Purse  did  not  turn  out  a  preacher. 

The  old  Seminary  on  the  north  side  of  Putnam 
Square  was  burned  down  in  nineteen  hundred  and 
Paris  built  a  fairly  up-to-date  school.  In  due 
course  of  time  Tom  entered  this  institution  and  on 
his  graduation  went  up  to  the  University  of  Ver 
mont.  We  learned  that  he  was  working  in  one  of 
the  Burlington  newspaper  offices  to  pay  his  ex 
penses  and  tuition,  —  with  what  his  mother  sent 
him,  which  she  saved  and  had  ready  from  God  only 
knows  where.  He  was  a  quiet,  studious  boy,  very 
intense  in  everything  he  did  and  his  high  marks  won 
him  a  scholarship  in  his  third  year.  That  helped 
some.  He  was  valedictorian  at  Commencement. 

The  night  he  came  back  to  Paris,  he  and  his  mother 
drove  out  to  the  Purse  place  together.  She  had  not 
been  able  to  afford  the  trip  to  the  graduation  because 
the  twins  were  coming  along  and  wanted  to  get 
through  Middlebury  in  another  two  years.  It  was 
a  rainy  day  in  the  last  of  June  and  neither  mother 
nor  son  felt  like  talking,  but  that  was  not  altogether 
because  of  the  rain. 

They  reached  home  and  Tom  put  up  the  horse. 
Mrs.  Morrow  was  growing  more  and  more  feeble. 
The  other  boys  had  not  returned  from  school  or  from 
work  and  with  Mrs.  Morrow  in  her  chair  in  the 
kitchen  asleep,  mother  and  son  were  alone. 

"Well,"  Mary  said  softly,  "at  any  rate,  one  of 
you  boys  has  had  a  college  education." 

"Yes,  Ma." 

Tom  arose  and  took  a  couple  of  turns  up  and  down 
the  room.  He  was  a  big,  strapping  fellow  now  —  six 
feet  in  his  stockings  —  with  sharp  forceful  features 
and  a  steel-gray  eye.  He  pulled  out  his  college 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  295 

Jimmy-pipe  and  filled  it  thoughtfully,  standing  by 
the  window  and  looking  out  into  the  fragrant  rainy 
night. 

"Tommy,"  breathed  the  mother  fearfully  at  last, 
from  her  place  before  the  devastated  dishes,  " —  is 
it  all  completed,  Tommy?" 

The  young  man  flushed  deeply. 

"You  mean,  Ma,  the  —  the  —  theological  school  ? " 

"Yes,"  she  said  half -hopefully. 

He  was  a  long  time  in  replying  and  in  that  mo 
ment  the  mother  knew  she  had  another  disappoint 
ment  to  bury  in  her  life. 

"Confound  it,  Ma,  I  hate  to  say  it;  I  know  it 
hurts  you  like  sin,  but  what's  the  use  of  trying  to 
follow  up  something  I  don't  care  anything  about 
and  arn't  fitted  for?" 

"It  was  the  dream  of  my  life,  Tommy  —  from  the 
first  night  I  looked  into  your  little  face  —  that  you 
should  some  day  be  a  minister.  And  I'm  - —  I'm 
willing  to  keep  right  on  workin',  Tommy,  to  see  you 
get  the  money  to  help  you  out  there  also  — 

"That's  the  trouble,  Ma;  you've  been  working 
too  darned  much !  I've  felt  ashamed  of  it  lots  of 
times.  But  I've  got  the  satisfaction  of  knowing 
I  didn't  cheat.  I  plugged  to  get  through  as  hard 
as  you  plugged  to  have  me." 

"I  know  you  did,  son.  It  wouldn't  be  in  Jack 
Purse's  son  to  cheat."  She  waited  a  long  time. 
Then  she  said:  "And  you  aren't  going  to  try  to 
be  a  minister  ?  " 

"What's  the  use,  Ma?"  he  cried  without  looking 
into  her  face.  "I'm  simply  not  cut  out  for  it;  my 
bent  doesn't  lie  in  that  direction.  Honest,  it 
doesn't.  What's  the  use  of  spoiling  a  good  black 
smith  to  make  a  rotten  preacher?" 


296  THE   GREATER  GLORY 

"But  you  don't  want  to  be  a  blacksmith  !" 

"You  know  what  I  want  to  be,  Ma.  We've 
talked  it  over  times  enough." 

Mary  placed  her  tired  hands  to  her  throbbing 
temples.  Yes,  they  had  talked  it  over  times  enough, 
indeed. 

"It's  in  my  blood,  mother,"  Tom  went  on.  "It's 
something  you  and  dad  have  bequeathed  to  me. 
It's  ground  into  my  very  bone  and  fiber.  You  can't 
blame  me.  I  was  born  to  it." 

"Yes,"  agreed  Mary.  "Perhaps  you  were, 
Tommy.  But  if  your  father  had  lived,  this  would 
about  break  his  heart." 

"Because  dad  was  only  a  second-rater;  he  never 
got  to  the  top  in  his  profession.  And  I'm  going  to 
climb  to  the  top  —  Springfield,  Boston,  New  York ! 
Watch  me !  And  dad  married  too  young  and  en 
cumbered  himself  with  a  family  before  he  could 
afford  it.  I  shan't  do  that.  I'm  a  rolling  stone 
until  I've  rolled  myself  up  to  the  top  of  the  grade. 
Then  I'll  marry  and  stay  there." 

"My  son  —  only  a  newspaperman  —  like  his 
daddy  before  him !  Oh,  well !  It  doesn't  matter ; 
it's  honorable  even  if  it's  poorly  paid.  Maybe  - 
maybe  some  of  the  other  boys  will  be  ministers 
-  although  I  can't  say  it'll  be  the  same  as  if  it  was 
you,  Tom.  You  were  my  first  baby,  you  know. 
It  makes  —  a  difference." 

"Mother,  don't  take  on  so.  I'll  be  at  the  top  of 
my  profession  the  same  as  I  stood  at  the  top  of  my 
class.  And  I'll  see  that  you're  not  sorry  you  re 
leased  me  'from  the  ministerial  obligation."  He 
said  this  last  with  an  attempt  at  pleasantry.  But 
it  fell  pathetically  flat. 

She  arose  and  went  over  to  him  after  a  time.     He 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  297 

knew  when  he  looked  at  her  that  the  situation  he 
had  dreaded  for  months  was  successfully  in  the  past. 
She  took  him  by  the  lapels  of  his  coat  with  her 
scrawny  hands  and  he  took  the  Jimmy-pipe  from 
his  teeth  that  she  could  look  into  his  face. 

"Tom,"  she  said.  "Then  be  a  good  newspaper 
man.  Remember  you're  dealing  with  the  deep  and 
sacred  things  of  life,  the  hearts  and  souls  and  des 
tinies  of  men  and  women!" 

"I  will,  mother,"  he  said  quietly. 

It  was  silent  in  that  room  for  a  time.  Then  the 
boy  said  huskily : 

"Mother,  you  won't  feel  so  awful,  awful  badly 
if  I  don't  become  a  preacher,  if  I  become  a  really 
good,  a  really  big  newspaperman?" 

The  answer  was  a  long  time  in  coming.  But  it 
came.  She  smiled  a  wonderful  smile,  as  she  turned 
her  sweet  face  up  to  his  as  she  had  turned  it  up  to 
another  man  in  the  bygone  years. 

"No,  Tom,"  she  said  brokenly.  "I  won't  feel 
awful  bad, —  over  it." 

And  the  next  night  Thomas  Joshua  Purse  left  for 
Boston  to  take  a  job  on  the  old  Chronicle. 

He  never  knew  what  that  decision  cost  his  mother. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  WOMAN  WITH  THE  SCARRED  FACE  DISCOVERS 
THAT  SELFISHNESS  DOES  NOT  PAY  AFTER  ALL 
AND  KNOWS  THE  MEANING  OF  THE  WARNING 
"VENGEANCE  Is  MINE;  I  WILL  REPAY,  SAITH 
THE  LORD,"  IN  ANOTHER  WAY. 

THEY  sat  facing  one  another  across  a  small  side 
table  in  the  dining  room  of  a  quiet  little  hotel  off 
Broadway.  The  time  was  eight  in  the  evening; 
dinner  guests  had  gone ;  after-theater  supper  parties 
were  yet  to  come.  For  the  present  they  were  almost 
alone  in  the  rich  and  silent  place  excepting  for  a 
waiter  who  leaned  against  a  grating  far  in  the  rear 
and  gossiped  idly  with  the  cashier  in  a  foreign 
tongue. 

The  man  was  a  striking  personality.  Out  of  his 
long  massive  features  glinted  hard  eyes  of  cold  gray. 
His  nose  and  mouth  and  chin  were  adamantine  and 
a  trifle  sinister.  His  age  might  have  been  fifty  if 
one  averaged  his  youthful  athletic  carriage  with  the 
head  of  iron-gray  hair  parted  on  one  side  and  brushed 
back  in  a  hoary  mane  above  his  forehead.  He 
was  clothed  in  expensive  but  sober  black;  there 
was  a  heavy  diamond  glinting  on  his  right  hand. 
About  him  was  an  air  of  success,  —  of  a  man  who 
had  forged  to  the  front  and  made  the  world  yield 
him  his  measure  of  its  wealth. 

The  woman  who  sat  opposite  him  with  elbows  on 
the  table  edge  and  hands  clasped  against  her  cheek 
may  have  been  of  equal  age  but  the  years  had  dealt 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  299 

more  harshly  with  her  than  with  him,  or  she  may 
have  attempted  to  get  more  out  of  them  than  the 
man  had  done.  Her  face  was  lined  and  counter- 
lined  with  a  million  tiny  wrinkles  which  she  had 
plainly  tried  to  hide  with  cosmetics;  her  hair  was 
iron  gray,  although  the  fatal  pathos  of  its  color  had 
been  somewhat  offset  by  the  clever  and  modish 
manner  in  which  it  had  been  treated.  The  woman's 
eyes  were  tired  eyes  now,  but  they  were  more  than 
that;  they  were  hungry  eyes,  wistful  eyes,  be 
wildered  eyes,  —  eyes  in  which  it  would  require 
much  more  emotion  to  make  the  tears  well  and  the 
cheeks  become  ridiculous. 

And  her  face  was  scarred,  a  faint  scar  to  be  sure, 
and  cleverly  treated  by  surgeons  whose  fees  were 
written  in  four  figures.  But  the  mouth  remained 
partially  closed ;  all  the  skill  of  facial  surgery  in  the 
world  had  failed  to  make  the  lips  function  normally 
again.  Which,  if  the  musical  world  knew  the  whole 
truth,  had  been  the  enforced  reason  for  the  dis 
appearance  of  one  Madame  Zola  from  the  concert 
and  operatic  stage. 

Neatly  the  man  tapped  the  ash  from  his  long 
cigar  into  the  base  of  the  safety-match  holder  at  his 
right.  He  restored  the  cigar  to  his  lips  and  replaced 
his  elbows  on  the  table's  edge.  Then  he  stroked 
his  heavy  powerful  chin  with  a  capable  hand.  His 
level  gray  eyes  were  upon  the  woman.  In  them  was 
no  pity,  no  emotion,  no  compassion  for  any  one  or 
anything. 

"It  is  one  of  those  situations  in  life,"  he  said  in 
his  low  matter-of-fact  tone,  "which  must  be  looked 
at  sensibly.  Both  of  us  have  lived  beyond  the 
years  of  sophomoric  sentiment  —  although  there  are 
times,  I  will  admit,  when  I'd  give  many  dollars  to 


300  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

return  to  them  again  and  not  know  many  things 
which  I've  since  discovered  in  life.  So  let's  change 
the  subject,  Mibb,  because  it  bores  me  by  its  very 
absurdity." 

"But  it  isn't  absurd,  Dick  !"  protested  the  woman, 
and  in  her  tone  and  the  manner  of  its  expression  lay 
a  pitiful  indication  of  her  weakness  to  cope  with  the 
situation,  yet  a  desperation  that  it  must  be  done 
somehow,  if  by  no  other  method  than  perseverance. 
"It's  big  and  vital  to  me,  Dick.  Oh,  Dick !  Don't 
you  know  what  it  means  to  me?" 

"No,"  returned  Dick  Robinson  coldly.  "What 
does  it  mean  to  you?" 

"  The  —  the  —  end,  Dick !" 

"End  of  what?" 

"Life,  love,  hope  —  everything."  Her  voice  as 
she  said  it  was  sunk  to  a  whisper. 

"I  told  you  a  long  time  ago  that  dramatics  always 
disgusted  me,  Mibb." 

"Dick!  I'm  in  earnest,  Dick  !  It  isn't  dramatics. 
I  mean  it,  Dick  !  I've  reached  the  end." 

"And  I  believe  you  had  reached  the  end  also  with 
Herb  Truman,  and  Young  Ezekial  and  all  the 
various  other  male  satellites  who  have  had  more 
or  less  bearing  on  your  mundane  orbit,  Mibb." 

"Dick!  My  Gawd,  Dick!  Don't  say  that; 
don't  talk  that  way  about  —  things.  It's  burning, 
blistering  acid  on  my  naked  heart  — " 

"Oh,  rot,  Mibb!  If  your  heart's  so  nude,  pull 
something  over  it.  I  don't  want  to  be  brutal  and 
you're  a  good  sport,  Mibb  —  but  make  a  fight  and 
get  your  balance  — " 

"It's  —  what  you  have  just  said  —  the  most 
cruel  thing  I've  ever  heard,  and  I've  had  lots  of  — 
cruel  things  said  to  me  — " 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  301 

"Mibb,  you'll  have  me  saying  lots  worse  things 
in  a  moment.  You're  making  a  scene,  you've  — " 

"No,  I  haven't  taken  too  much,  and  I  will  make 
a  scene  if  it  means  — " 

"Now  look  here,  Mibb;  we've  got  to  have  an 
understanding  and  we'll  have  it  right  here  and  now ; 
you're  provoking  it.  I'm  sorry  for  you,  although 
not  in  just  the  way  you  think.  I  can  see  exactly 
how  you  feel  and  if  I  could  I  would  help  you." 

"You  can  help  me  !" 

"But  not  by  marrying  you  — " 

"Yes,  by  marrying  me!  Why  not?  What's  the 
past  few  years  meant  —  all  the  times  we've  had 
together  —  and  the  trips  and  the  talks  and  the 
suppers  and  parties ;  what  have  they  meant  if  not 
matrimony.  What  could  a  woman  think  ?  —  Dick  ! 
Dick !  —  Don't  go  back  on  me  now  !  Gawd,  Dick 
-  don't  tell  me  it's  all  — " 

"Well,  what?" 

" — entertainment  —  and  nothing  more,  Dick. 
I've  had  a  hard  row  to  hoe.  I've  been  —  unfor 
tunate,  it  seems,  in  everything  I've  taken  up,  every 
thing  I've  tried  to  do.  And  I'm  on  the  level  in 
this,  on  the  level  with  you,  I've  been  on  the  level 
all  along,  and  I  thought  at  last  I  was  coming  into 
a  little  peace  and  rest  after  it  all.  What  have  I  done 
to  get  this  —  what  have  I  done." 

The  tears  that  came  up  in  her  tired  and  burned- 
out  eyes  only  caused  the  man  to  tap  off  more  cigar- 
ash  calmly  and  look  at  her  in  vivisectional  interest 
—  cold  interest  —  as  he  would  consider  the  im 
properly-timing  functions  of  a  machine  that  was 
suddenly  doing  strange  and  inexplicable  things. 

"I  never  thought  it  was  in  you,  Mibb,"  he  said 
finally.  "I  thought  you  were  more  sensible." 


302  THE   GREATER  GLORY 

"Sensible?  Ain't  I  sensible,  Dick?  Ain't  it  the 
most  sensible  thing  in  the  world  for  me  to  want — 
you?  After  what  I've  gone  through  and  suffered 
and  been  cheated  out  of  — " 

"Mibb,  let's  discuss  this  thing  like  a  sane  man 
and  a  sane  woman.  Looking  backward  for  a  mo 
ment  I  can  remember  a  night  twenty-eight  years 
ago  when  you  and  I  with  a  lot  of  other  young  folks 
up  home  sat  around  a  fire  in  a  little  shack  up  in 
the  mountains." 

"Don't  I  remember  it?  Haven't  I  thought  of  it 
thousands  of  times,  Dick  ?  Wished  I  could  go  back 
to  that  night  and  live  the  years  over  again  - 

The  man  frowned  at  the  interruption.  But  he 
went  on : 

" — and  Herb  Truman  —  poor  old  Herb!  got 
sentimental  and  proposed  an  extraordinary  thing  — ' 

"Yes,  poor  old  Herbert!  Look  what  he  did  to 
me  !  Look  at  my  face  — ! " 

—  he  proposed,  Mibb,  that  thirty  years  from 
that  night  we  should  all  gather  together  again  and 
the  one  who  had  made  the  greatest  success  of  his 
or  her  life  should  get  the  gold-piece  that  was  to  be 
left  under  the  miser's  hearthstone." 

"And  that's  what  I'm  trying  to  do,  Dick!  —  in 
wanting  to  marry  you,  making  a  success  of  my  life, 
taking  up  the  life  of  a  real  woman,  settling  down  — " 

"Please  don't  interrupt  me,  Mibb.  On  that 
night,  at  the  threshold  of  our  lives,  so  to  speak,  we 
started  to  face  the  world  and  take  our  places  in 
society  and  work  out  our  destiny,  the  manner  of 
men  and  women  which  we  were." 

"Don't  open  old  wounds  !" 

"We  were  about  equally  divided,  boys  and  girls 
—  men  and  women.  There  was  no  stipulation 


THE   GREATER  GLORY  303 

what  shape  our  successes  were  to  take.  The  boys 
were  supposed  to  be  judged  on  their  careers  as  men ; 
the  women  were  not  to  be  compared  to  them,  but 
on  their  careers  as  women.  The  greatest  success, 
the  fullest  life  —  that  was  the  criterion  of  achieve 
ment  —  " 

"I  didn't  know  as  much  then  as  I  know  now, 
Dick.  I  was  only  a  silly  girl  that  hadn't  awak 
ened  — " 

" —  and  we  all  agreed  that  if  we  were  living  thirty 
years  in  the  future  and  it  was  humanly  possible  to 
do  so,  we  would  gather  again  and  see  who  had  made 
their  lives  worth  while,  whether  they  had  indeed 
realized  success  in  the  vocation  to  which  they  turned 
themselves.  Business,  the  professions,  the  making 
of  money  for  the  men ;  careers  for  the  women,  per 
haps  ;  perhaps  motherhood,  wifehdod ;  it  didn't 
matter.  We  would  all  of  us  recognize  quickly  when 
that  gathering  time  came,  to  whom  the  gold-piece 
belonged.  The  point  was  that  we  were  conscious 
of  our  situations  on  the  threshold  of  life;  we  had 
our  lives  and  careers  ahead  to  mould  as  we  saw  fit. 
We  were  free  moral  agents.  If  we  won,  we  would 
have  ourselves  to  applaud ;  if  we  lost  and  made  a 
failure  of  life,  we  would  have  no  one  but  ourselves 
to  thank." 

"Dick !  I  can't  stand  it  to  listen  to  this ;  I  just 
can't ;  not  after  what  you've  told  me  just  now  — " 

"But  you're  going  to  listen  to  it,  Mibb,  because 
I  know  what's  good  for  you.  It  won't  hurt  you  to 
hear  the  truth.  All  your  life  you've  dodged  the 
truth;  you've  avoided  looking  unpleasant  subjects 
or  situations  squarely  in  their  faces ;  you've  floated 
with  the  current  of  existence  and  trusted  and 
expected  it  to  waft  you  into  pleasant  places." 


304  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

"Dick!  I  never  expected  to  have  to  stand  this 
from  you." 

"You  are  upset  because  when  it  came  to  a  show 
down  I've  balked  on  making  you  my  wife.  You 
want  to  know  the  reason.  I'm  telling  you  now, 
Mibb.  It's  unpleasant  but  it's  high  time  you 
cultivated  a  little  fiber  in  your  soul  to  stand  un 
pleasant  things." 

The  woman  clenched  her  thin  and  bloodless  hands. 

"I'm  not  going  into  the  careers  of  any  one  in  that 
crowd  but  your  own,  Mibb.  You  went  back  to 
town  from  that  Gold-Piece  Party  the  same  as  all 
the  rest  of  us ;  you  had  your  chance  — " 

"And  I  tried  the  same  as  all  the  rest  of  you ; 
Herb  Truman  had  money  —  give  me  credit  for  try 
ing  to  better  myself  in  marrying  him,  Dick  —  and 
I  thought  that  success  meant  bettering  myself  that 
way.  If  I  made  a  wrong  calculation  in  that,  in  the 
estimate  of  money  being  the  estimate  of  success, 
give  me  credit  for  trying." 

"I'm  not  discounting  your  endeavor,  your  attempt, 
as  you  call  it.  There  was  nothing  wrong  with  that. 
The  point  was  that  your  idea  of  success  was  the 
height  of  selfishness  you  could  attain  for  yourself. 
You  didn't  want  to  measure  your  success  by  the 
things  which  you  could  do  in  the  world ;  you  wanted 
to  measure  your  success  by  the  things  you  could 
avoid  and  money  helped  you  to  avoid  them.  You 
married  Herb,  not  to  make  him  a  successful  wife, 
but  to  acquire  the  money  to  make  your  life  easy  and 
filled  with  physical  comfort." 

"I  was  only  a  girl,  Dick.  Look  at  my  mother 
and  father  !  Could  you  blame  me  ?  " 

"Blame  you?  Of  course  I  blame  you!  With 
the  exception  of  Jack  Purse  and  Mary  Wood  there 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  305 

wasn't  one  of  us  in  the  crowd  but  what  had  just  as 
poor  apologies  in  the  shape  of  parents  as  yourself. 
You  knew  just  as  much  as  the  rest  of  us  did,  that 
there  was  work  in  the  world  to  be  done,  a  share  cut 
out  for  each  of  us  to  do.  Deliberately  you  ignored 
it.  I  happened  to  know  that  a  few  days  after  that 
Gold-Piece  Party  you  openly  taunted  Mary  Wood 
for  marrying  poor  honest,  earnest  Jack  Purse ;  you 
taunted  her  for  marrying  poor,  for  condemning  her 
self  to  a  life  of  work  and  household  drudgery  and 
child-bearing  and  all  the  rest  that's  a  humble 
woman's  portion.  You  were  selfish,  Mibb,  and  that 
selfishness  has  hounded  you  right  down  to  the 
present,  in  everything  you've  done  —  in  every 
decision  you've  made  —  in  everything  you've  taken 
up." 

"I've  seen  my  mistake,  Dick.     I  want  to  — 

"No,  you  haven't  seen  your  mistake.  You  want 
to  marry  me  for  the  same  reason  you  wanted  to 
marry  Herb  Truman  and  young  Ezekial  and  all  the 
rest  of  the  boys  who  had  money  —  to  save  your 
own  skin,  Mibb ;  to  better  yourself  physically. 
Personal  service  doesn't  enter  into  it  at  all,  Mibb  — 

"Oh,  how  cruel  —  how  heartless  you  are!"  she 
moaned. 

"Not  a  bit  of  it !     Merely  sensible." 

"  As  your  wife  I  could  — ' 

"As  my  wife  you  could  do  absolutely  nothing 
more  than  you  are  doing  now  —  give  me  your  society. 
And  for  that  society  I  pay  you  what  it  is  worth." 

"How  about  a  home  —  ?" 

"I  have  a  home.  It  cost  me  seventy  thousand 
dollars  and  it  is  all  that  I  desire.  I  have  efficient 
servants  who  keep  it  well  ordered  — ' 

"Is  that  all  a  home  means,  Dick?" 


306 

"Don't  let's  talk  about  children  at  our  ages, 
Mibb.  It's  disgusting,  if  that's  what  you  mean. 
As  for  your  society  in  my  home,  it  would  be  of  no 
more  value  to  me  there  than  it  is  in  the  places  we 
have  been  going  together  the  past  few  years ;  no, 
there  is  absolutely  nothing  which  you  could  give  me 
as  my  wife.  On  the  other  hand,  there  is  much  more 
that  I  would  be  called  upon  to  give  you  :  my  name  — 
which  I  may  say  without  egotism  is  of  no  small 
value  and  not  lightly  to  be  bestowed  —  my  money, 
my  liberty,  the  concentration  of  my  fancy  solely 
on  one  woman  whom  I  am  sure  in  time  would  bore 
me—" 

"So  I  bore  you,  do  I :  the  last  two  years  I've  been 
boring  you  ?  Then  why  continue  —  ?  " 

"No,  you  have  not  bored  me  yet,  for  the  reason 
that  we  have  not  seen  enough  of  one  another  to 
become  bored  with  one  another's  eternal  society  - 

"And  you  call  yourself  a  successful  man  —  and  a 
gentleman." 

"I  do  not,  Mibb.  There  is  a  difference  between 
us.  One  side  of  my  life  —  the  life  of  a  normal  man 
which  should  be  well  rounded  out  before  he  can  call 
himself  wholly  successful  —  one  side  of  me  has 
been  dwarfed  and  stunted,  the  family  part,  through 
agencies  with  which  women  like  yourself  have  had 
much  to  do.  That's  irrelevant  to  what  we're  dis 
cussing,  Mibb.  I'm  saying  that  there's  nothing  you 
could  give  me  that  I'm  not  getting  now ;  yet  there's 
much  that  I  could  give  you  for  which  I  would  get 
no  value  in  return.  So  it  would  not  be  a  fair  bargain. 
And  an  unfair  bargain  is  no  bargain  —  in  my  philos 
ophy.  To  get  back  to  your  personal  career  :  Within 
a  few  years  after  your  tempestuous  marriage  to  Herb 
you  left  him  —  or  he  left  you  — " 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  307 

"He  was  a  drunken  sot!  He  was  a  brute!  I 
could  tell  you  — " 

"I  knew  Herb  Truman  as  well  as  you  did.  We 
were  chums  together  before  you  ever  married  him. 
He  was  a  big-souled,  lovable  boy.  All  he  wanted 
was  to  be  mothered.  He  never  had  a  mother  of 
his  own  any  more  than  I  ever  had  one.  He  didn't 
know  it  was  a  mother  he  craved;  I  didn't  know  it 
either  until  I  became  older.  But  that's  what  he 
wanted  and  in  a  fashion  he  married  you  to  get  it." 

"Get  what?" 

"Mothering." 

The  man  looked  straight  as  a  lance  at  the  woman. 
Her  eyes  fell  guiltily. 

"He  wanted  mothering,  I  say,"  Robinson  went  on. 
"Every  man  wants  it  from  a  woman.  I  don't 
care  how  old  men  grow,  they're  only  boys  at  heart. 
And  when  they  grow  up  and  get  lonely  and  out  of 
sorts  they  want  some  one  to  whom  they  can  bring 
their  troubles  and  get  sympathy  and  help.  A  suc 
cessful  wife  understands  that,  though  perhaps  she 
couldn't  put  it  into  fine  phrases,  —  it  would  sound 
maudlin.  In  their  boyhood  days  a  mother  fills 
that  place.  It's  the  sterling-true  function  of  woman 
kind  without  which  she's  merely  female  and  nothing 
else ;  men  come  to  look  for  it  in  all  women  —  that 
influence  over  them  —  that  sympathy,  and  wherever 
you  find  an  unhappily  married  man  you  find  a  fool 
of  a  woman  too  small-bored  to  recognize  it.  You 
were  too  selfish  and  thoughtless  to  do  that  to  Herbert. 
He  became  discouraged  without  knowing  why  he  was 
discouraged.  He  sought  relief  for  his  nameless 
heartache  in  drink.  One  thing  led  to  another  and 
he  wandered  away,  God  knows  where.  He  became 
a  derelict  because  he  was  despondent  over  a  great 


308  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

disappointment  which  stood  out  in  his  life  irreme 
diable,  so  he  thought,  or  at  least  he  lost  interest  in 
things  because  he  was  out  of  accord  with  all  the 
world,  and  he  —  not  you  !  —  paid  the  price  !" 

"Dick,  haven't  you  any  heart  at  all?  Are  you  a 
cad  after  all ;  can't  you  see  how  this  is  — 

"Mibb,  did  anybody  ever  take  the  time  or  trouble 
to  tell  you  this  before  ?  " 

"No  one  ever  did  because  they  had  too  much 
regard  for  my  feelings." 

"Then  it's  time  some  really  good  friend  of  yours 
cast  aside  pretty  conventionalities  and  gave  you  a 
strong  look  at  the  naked  truth.  Sit  quiet  and  hear 
me  out;  there's  lots  more  I  have  to  tell  you.  I'm 
coming  down  to  my  own  career  in  a  moment,  why 
I  hold  these  ideas  that  I  do  —  why  I  won't  marry 
you,  or  any  woman.  That  should  interest  you, 
what?" 

"Yes,"  she  whispered  miserably. 

"Very  good.  There  was  once  a  boy,  Dick  Robin 
son  ;  remember  him  ?  He  was  a  good  sort  —  before 
he  went  money-mad.  But  there  was  a  time  when 
he  wasn't  money-mad.  He  loved  you  sincerely  and 
deeply.  He  would  have  made  you  a  good  husband. 
But  you  refused  him,  so  long  as  there  was  money  to 
be  married  elsewhere,  and  when  you  finally  came 
around  to  him  in  after  years  and  displayed  interest 
in  him,  the  damage  had  been  done.  You  had  sent 
him  into  his  money-madness ;  his  idea  at  first  was 
to  acquire  so  much  that  it  would  make  you  sorry. 
When  he  got  going  he  generated  so  much  momentum 
that  he  couldn't  stop.  The  stuff  owned  him  —  got 
him  as  booze  gets  some  men.  But  at  the  same  time 
he'd  generated  enough  common  sense  —  if  you  want 
to  call  it  that  —  to  see  that  you  weren't  after  him 


THE   GREATER  GLORY  309 

for  the  sake  of  love  for  him ;  it  was  his  money  and 
what  it  meant.  And  by  that  time  he  loved  his 
money  too  much  to  let  you  dig  your  lily-white  fingers, 
your  greedy  fingers,  deeply  down  into  his  pile.  He 
went  away  from  you.  You  had  sent  one  man  to 
disgrace  directly  as  the  result  of  your  lack  of  ma 
ternity,  Mibb ;  you  sent  Dick  Robinson's  soul  to 
hell,  the  hell  of  worship  of  seven  per  cent,  by  your 
choice  of  wealth  over  honest  love  and  willingness 
to  get  down  and  work  honestly  for  it  beside  a  man 
who  loved  you.  But  that  isn't  all,  Mibb  — " 

"I  am  a  hell-cat,  ain't  I?"  said  the  woman 
bitterly.  But  it  was  sarcasm  and  her  voice  was 
broken. 

"No,  just  merely  selfish,  fearfully  selfish ;  selfish 
ness  has  been  at  the  bottom  of  every  shadow  which 
has  crossed  your  life,  Mibb." 

"You!  Telling  this  to  me,  after  all  the  ways 
you've  made  money  and  the  things  you've  done." 

"  Careful,  Mibb.  Maybe  I've  made  folks  come  up 
to  the  scratch  in  business  but  I've  gone  on  the  level." 

"And  you  don't  admit  that  your  life  has  been 
selfish  ?  That  you  are  living  selfishly  now  —  alone 
and  without  a  family  —  and  for  your  own  enjoy 
ment;  not  helping  anybody  or  doing  anything  to 
make  the  world  better?" 

"No;  I  haven't  gone  to  extremes  in  this  thing. 
And  as  for  selfishness,  at  least  I  haven't  always 
looked  for  the  easiest  way  around  things.  I  haven't 
dodged  hard  work.  I  haven't  asked  others  to  carry 
my  burdens,  or  finance  me,  or  permit  me  to  live  on 
the  fruits  of  their  labors." 

"You're  a  man.  You're  supposed  to  do  hard 
things  and  carry  burdens  and  finance  yourself. 
I'm  —  I'm  a  woman  !" 


310  THE  GREATER  GLORY 

The  man  raised  his  eyebrows. 

"That,  Mibb,"  he  said,  "is  the  most  absurd 
thing  you've  said  to-night.  Let's  quit  this,"  he 
snapped.  "I'll  be  saying  things  for  which  I'll  be 
sorry,  things  unbecoming  a  man  who  tries  to  pre 
serve  the  appearance  of  a  gentleman." 

"No,"  she  said  with  feminine  perversity. 
"You've  started;  go  ahead  and  finish!  You've 
asked  me  if  I  wanted  to  know  why  you  haven't 
marrieji;  why  you  won't  marry  me  when  —  when" 
-  her  voice  suddenly  softened  into  a  strange  mellow 
thing  and  rang  with  the  pain  of  it,  " —  when  I  love 
you,  Dick!"  she  concluded  lamely.  "Might  as 
well  finish  what  you'd  begun.  You've  hurt  me 
already  —  more  than  I  can  —  feel." 

But  for  a  moment  he  simply  sat  quiet,  his  eyes 
upon  her,  his  heavy  lips  closed  firmly.  He  sat 
quiet  until  his  queer  fit  of  temper  passed.  His 
face  gradually  softened.  Over  his  features  came  a 
look  of  hunger  and  homesickness  and  longing, 
melancholy  —  heartache.  It  was  a  rather  startling 
change.  He  picked  up  a  fruit  knife  and  drew  lines 
with  its  point  in  the  cloth. 

Twice  he  looked  at  her  and  dropped  his  eyes 
again.  There  was  a  trace  of  cynicism  in  his  voice  as 
he  said : 

"Mibb,  I'm  not  a  woman-hater.  But  I've  simply 
lost  faith  in  you  women.  I  never  knew  a  mother, 
though  like  poor  Herb,  I  felt  the  need  of  one.  When 
I  grew  up,  if  I  was  attracted  to  women  it  was  for 
companionship  and  sympathy  and  help.  But  some 
how  I  never  connected  right.  The  longer  I  looked 
the  more  bitter  I  became,  Mibb.  Women  for  wives 
indeed  —  women  for  pleasure,  women  for  business, 
women  for  careers  —  plenty  of  women  for  every- 


THE   GREATER  GLORY  311 

thing  but  to  go  to  with  a  weary  head  and  a  heart 
ache  and  get  a  little  help  and  inspiration  and  strength 
for  the  soul.  Oh,  Mibb !  You  don't  know  it  — 
don't  realize  it  —  and  few  women  there  are  that  do ; 
but  the  crying  need  of  the  age  and  the  heart  of  men 
is  for  that  kind  of  women,  the  maternal  women, 
Mibb." 

For  an  instant  the  woman  forgot  her  own  misery 
in  her  stark  surprise.  This  !  —  from  Dick  Robinson. 

"Years  ago,  Mibb,  before  women  went  outside 
the  home  and  into  business  and  got  all  snarled  up 
with  fads  and  isms,  they  didn't  have  much  else  to 
occupy  their  attention  but  home  and  folks  and  kids. 
All  these  folks  who  want  to  'mend  the  status  of 
poor  down-trodden  and  abused  womankind'  say 
it  was  narrowing  and  degrading  and  enslaving.  But 
Mibb,  it  did  make  mothers  !  The  business  of  women 
was  to  marry  and  have  homes  and  stay  in  those 
homes  and  raise  little  kids.  That  was  their  func 
tion  in  life  and  having  no  other  it  was  inbred  into 
their  bone  generation  after  generation.  Look  at  the 
homes  of  fifty  or  a  hundred  years  ago,  Mibb.  Look 
at  some  of  those  on  the  Vermont  hillsides  back 
around  Paris.  There's  nothing  like  those  old  home 
steads  to-day,  Mibb.  They've  all  gone  with  the 
'old-fashioned'  women  that  used  to  live  in  them." 

The  woman  wanted  to  say  something  but  she 
didn't  know  just  what  it  ought  to  be. 

"I  suppose  industries  that  have  come  in  to  make 
women's  work  easier,  and  yet  that  have  taken  her  at 
the  same  time  out  of  the  home  and  into  business, 
are  responsible,  Mibb.  Perhaps  I'm  wrong  in 
judging  you  so  harshly.  But  oh,  Mibb  —  inside  — 
deep  inside,  there's  the  awful  heart-hunger  in  a  lot 
of  men  to  know  what  their  grand-daddies  knew,  yet 


312  THE   GREATER  GLORY 

who  never  placed  a  value  on  it  because  it  hadn't  been 
denied  them.  We're  not  raising  families  any  more, 
Mibb.  We're  only  having  kids.  We're  not  making 
homes.  We're  renting  a  place  to  live  in  and  furnish 
ing  it  with  stuff  bought  at  a  store.  Everything's 
shallow  and  transitory  and  unsatisfactory  and 
addled.  Half  the  time  we  don't  know  what  the 
matter  is  with  us,  we  men  of  to-day.  But  it's  that 
we're  getting  away  from  nature,  away  from  the 
family  idea,  away  from  solid  substantial  rugged 
foundations  of  living." 

The  man  drew  a  deep  breath.  For  a  moment  his 
jaw  closed  hard.  Then  he  went  on  : 

"Oh,  I  know  we've  got  women  that  are  well  enough 
willing  to  marry  the  men,  girls  still  fall  in  love  with 
the  boys  and  the  boys  with  the  girls.  But  I  couldn't 
take  a  clerk  out  of  my  office  and  put  him  half  the 
time  in  my  engineering  department  and  expect  him 
to  keep  on  improving  as  clerk,  following  up  the 
job,  growing  more  and  more  efficient  in  his  line  — 
when  all  the  time  I'm  distracting  his  energies  and 
making  him  neither  one  nor  the  other.  And  it's 
much  the  same  with  you  women,  Mibb.  The  girls 
to-day  marry  the  boys,  true  enough,  and  they  rent 
a  place  and  furnish  it  and  raise  their  babies.  But 
there's  a  hundred  things  to  attract  them  and  distract 
them  and  take  them  outside  the  home  while  at  the 
same  time  they  try  to  keep  the  home;  and  gradu 
ally  the  home  instinct  of  generations  is  being  ironed 
out  of  them,  Mibb.  They  want  to  do  a  woman's 
work  and  at  the  same  time  they  want  to  do  a  man's 
work,  and  the  good  Lord  only  knows  what  to  call 
the  things  they  do.  They're  forgetting  how  to 
really  truly  mother,  Mibb.  I  heard  a  dam-fool 
female  the  other  day  get  up  on  a  soapbox  and  yell 


THE   GREATER  GLORY  313 

that  the  child  was  the  jailer  of  the  mother.  As  if 
there  was  any  reason  why  it  shouldn't  be,  Mibb  ? 
And  all  mankind  knows  is  that  something  has  been 
tipped  over  and  upset  somewhere  and  he's  all  at 
sea  and  doesn't  know  where  he  gets  off  or  what's 
coming.  And  pretty  soon,  either  en  masse  or  as  an 
individual,  he  commences  to  feel  that  he  doesn't 
give  a  damn,  Mibb.  And  when  a  man  gets  to  the 
point  that  he  doesn't  give  a  damn,  he  isn't  over- 
careful  about  his  relations  in  other  matters.  It's 
all  a  mixed-up  and  lamentable  mess,  and  God  only 
knows  who's  responsible.  But  it's  coming  over  all 
society,  Mibb,  more  and  more  every  year  and  —  well 
—  the  kids  that  are  growing  up  to-day  are  show 
ing  it." 

Again  the  woman  did  not  know  what  to  say.  She 
felt  as  if  Dick  Robinson  had  waded  off  beyond  her 
depth  and  if  she  tried  to  follow  him  she  would 
flounder.  If  she  had  been  where  she  had  been  thirty 
years  before,  up  in  Gold-Piece  cabin,  she  might  have 
tried  to  follow  him.  But  she  had  dissipated  the 
heritage  that  had  once  been  hers.  She  must  pay 
the  penalty,  the  penalty  of  silence  —  silence  more 
than  the  mere  silence  of  speech. 

"Mibb,"  he  concluded  in  a  hollow  voice,  "what 
this  old  world  needs  to-day  more  than  it  ever  needed 
it  before,  isn't  women  to  run  business  and  make 
governments  and  all  that  rot.  I  suppose  it's  all 
right  in  its  way  to  have  women  leavening  up  things 
a  trifle,  but  they've  gone  and  overdone  it,  Mibb ; 
they're  overdoing  it  already.  They  need  to  get  back 
to  first  principles,  back  to  the  good  old-fashioned 
family  idea  of  home  interest  and  unselfish  devotion 
to  the  heartaches  of  little  kids  and  the  solid  sub 
stantial  fundamentals  that  the  family  is  the  basis 


314  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

of  society,  and  there's  not  a  place  on  God's  earth 
where  a  man  can  learn  to  be  a  square  business  man, 
a  decent  citizen,  a  credit  to  this  creator,  that  beats 
his  mother's  knee,  Mibb.  Bring  on  your  damned 
old  arguments  about  the  uplift  of  society  and  puri 
fication  of  government  and  the  refining  influence 
of  women  in  business.  Talk  your  head  off !  That 
won't  take  from  the  heart  of  a  man  the  ache  after 
something  he  can't  express,  the  feeling  that  he's 
all  at  sea  somehow,  or  it  won't  put  into  his  soul  the 
wholesome  love  and  veneration  and  respect  that 
he  had  for  his  mother  who  was  a  woman  and  a  wife 
first,  even  if  it  cost  her  her  life  and  her  reason. 
Mothers?  The  world's  heartsick  for  them,  Mibb. 
God,  I  wish  I  had  one  —  right  now  !" 

Finally  the  woman  spoke. 

"Well,  I  don't  suppose  I  can  say  anything  on  that 
score,  Dick.  Sometimes  I've  felt  something  was 
wrong  in  my  own  life.  I've  had  some  fearfully 
lonely  moments,  Dick,  when  I  wondered  if  what  the 
matter  with  me  was  —  was  - 

"Go  ahead  and  say  it !"  ordered  the  man.  "It's 
nothing  to  be  ashamed  of !  Kids !  —  that's  it, 
isn't  it  ?  And  why  didn't  you  have  them ;  do  you 
suppose  if  poor  Herb  had  had  three  or  four  kids  he'd 
gone  off  the  way  he  did?  Why  didn't  you  have 
them,  Mibb  ?  Because  of  the  way  you  was  brought 
up.  Your  mother  kept  trying  to  save  you  from  what 
she  called  the  drudgery  of  the  home.  I  know; 
I  remember.  She  put  pretty  clothes  on  you  and 
did  all  she  could  to  discourage  you  from  becoming 
a  mother.  Why  did  she  do  it?  Because  she 
wasn't  a  mother  herself.  Oh,  she  may  have  gone 
through  hell  and  brought  you  into  the  world.  But 
that's  only  an  incident  in  motherhood,  Mibb.  She 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  315 

wasn't  living  naturally  in  her  own  home  herself; 
she  was  the  pants  and  the  check  book  and  the 
wage  earner  of  your  home  —  I  remember  how  your 
dad  sat  around  Will  Seaver's  store  in  the  old  days 
rather  than  smoke  his  pipe  with  his  feet  on  his  own 
sitting-room  stove  at  home.  And  you  had  mother 
hood  and  homehood  ironed  out  of  you  the  same  as 
millions  of  young  girls  are  getting  it  ironed  out  of 
them  to-day." 

"Then  you  admit  I  wasn't  to  blame —  wholly, 
Dick." 

"But  I  hold  it  was  up  to  you  when  you  reached 
maturity  and  age  of  reason  yourself,  to  correct  the 
trouble,  just  as  it's  up  to  the  women  of  to-day  to 
do  it.  Lord,  the  men  can't  do  it ;  the  women  have 
got  to  do  it  for  themselves." 

"But  you'll  admit  that  the  drudgery  of  the  home 
is—" 

"Drudgery  of  the  home  —  hell!  There's  no 
drudgery  of  the  home  only  what  women  make  for 
themselves.  There's  drudgery  everywhere.  All  of 
us  have  got  to  sweat  our  clothes  for  the  things  we 
make  the  world  hand  over  to  us.  It's  all  in  the  way 
you  look  at  a  thing;  what  your  mental  attitude  is. 
I  suppose  sawing  wood  is  one  of  the  hardest  kinds 
of  labor.  Yet  don't  you  remember  old  Bill  Fletcher 
up  home  ?  He  said  the  Lord  sent  him  into  the  world 
a-purpose  to  saw  wood  and  he  was  made  to  saw 
wood,  and  he  was  going  to  saw  wood  and  saw  wood 
he  did.  The  man  was  supremely  happy  in  sawing 
wood.  It's  the  same  with  anything  and  every 
thing.  It's  all  in  your  mental  attitude.  If  you're 
a  woman  and  hate  housework  and  motherhood  and 
don't  use  your  brains  in  your  work  and  don't  know 
how  to  mother  your  husband  and  your  boys  and 


316  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

get  the  best  results  by  the  shortest  route,  like 
you'd  have  to  do  to  be  successful  in  business,  nat 
urally  what  you  have  to  do  in  your  natural  sphere 
will  be  drudgery,  won't  it?  And  if  you  go  on 
creating  this  mangling  myth  about  the  drudgery 
of  the  home  and  pass  it  on  to  your  daughter  and  she 
skims  it  over  as  quickly  as  she  can  and  passes  the 
idea  on  to  her  daughter,  pretty  soon  the  drudgery 
of  the  home  is  going  to  be  a  reality,  isn't  it?  But 
if  you  love  your  home  and  your  babies  and  look  at 
your  life  work  as  the  biggest  job  under  God's  heaven, 
bringing  human  beings  to  life  and  caring  for  them 
and  rearing  them  into  the  stature  of  strong  men  and 
noble  women  —  if  your  mental  attitude  is  right  — 
there  won't  be  much  drudgery  in  it,  will  there  ?  " 

"Dick,"  said  the  woman  after  a  long  time.  "I'm 
sorry ;  oh,  I'm  so  sorry  for  lots  of  things.  The  pity 
of  it  is  that  for  me  —  it's  too  late  to  mend.  I 
guess  —  I  guess  —  you've  told  the  truth,  Dick.  I 
do  know  what's  the  matter  with  me.  Yes,  I'll 
confess  it.  It  was  the  kids,  the  little  kids  of  my  own 
that  I  never  had.  I've  lived  a  lonely,  abnormal 
life  and  I  guess  —  I  guess  —  it's  up  to  me  to  pay 
the  penalty.  Gawd,  haven't  I  paid  the  penalty?" 
she  cried  it  out  suddenly.  "Dick,  perhaps  it  was 
the  longing  for  some  remnant  of  that  satisfaction 
that  I  was  seeking  —  though  I  wouldn't  hardly 
dare  confess  it  to  myself  —  when  I  went  around 
with  you,  hoping  that  — " 

"Hoping  that  I'd  marry  you?  It's  too  late, 
Mibb.  I've  seen  too  much;  I'm  all  burned  out 
inside.  I'm  burned  out  and  blue  and  discouraged 
and  cynical.  It's  been  my  lot  to  run  up  against 
only  the  modern  women  —  meaning  the  kind  that 
sort  of  break  out  in  a  riot  when  some  one  dares  to 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  317 

say  that  woman's  place  is  in  the  home.  Maybe  it's 
because  I  came  away  from  a  little  town  so  early  in 
life.  Whatever  it  is,  it's  done  for  me." 

There  was  an  awful  pathos  in  Dick  Robinson's 
voice.  And  something  stirred  in  the  woman  across 
the  table,  —  the  woman  who  had  wasted  the  sub 
stance  of  her  womanhood  in  selfish  living.  Perhaps 
it  was  the  latent  spark  of  maternity ;  heart  answer 
ing  heart  in  the  loneliness  of  worldliness.  A  choke 
came  in  her  parched  throat.  She  reached  forth 
her  hands  convulsively. 

"Dick,"  she  whispered,  "if  you'd  only  let  me 
help  you ;  if  you  only  would  ! " 

"You  can't !"  he  declared  harshly.  "No  woman 
can.  I've  seen  so  much  now  that  I  wouldn't  trust 
the  best  woman  that  ever  drew  breath.  The 
time  for  that  is  on  the  threshold  of  life,  not  in  the 
exit  out  into  the  late  afternoon,  when  everything's 
in  the  future  and  a  man  needs  a  woman's  help  and 
a  home  behind  him  and  a  family  to  bind  and  inspire 
him.  Oh,  Mibb  !  There's  so  many  women  —  and 
men  too  —  who  like  to  argue  how  women  live 
beside  men  and  fight  beside  men  and  ought  to  vote 
beside  men,  and  dish  out  a  beautiful  lot  of  claptrap 
about  how  legislation  is  going  to  change  this,  that 
and  the  other  evil  that's  afflicting  society.  But 
take  it  from  an  old  rounder,  Mibb ;  that's  all  irrel 
evant  and  shallow  and  on  the  surface.  It  doesn't 
go  deep  enough,  Mibb.  It  doesn't  get  down  to  the 
bedrock  and  the  hard-pan  of  human  nature  and 
alter  the  causes  that  are  spreading  the  disease  of 
social  dissatisfaction.  You  can't  legislate  old  mother 
Nature,  Mibb.  You  can't  rip  out  in  a  generation 
all  that's  been  imbedded  in  the  race  since  the  dawn 
of  time.  The  trouble  is  that  women  are  consciously 


318  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

or  unconsciously  forgetting  how  to  mother,  Mibb  — • 
mother  their  kids  or  their  menfolk  —  they're  simply 
killing  the  maternal  instinct  by  distractions.  Our 
industrial  generation  means  families  moving  around 
from  town  to  town  where  wages  are  highest ;  camp 
ing  out  in  rented  quarters,  getting  away  from  the 
land,  from  substantial  domestic  foundations.  We're 
going  through  a  sort  of  racial  hysteria  for  shorter 
methods,  quicker  results,  labor-saving  devices,  a 
million  distractions  and  diversions  —  and  it's 
making  everything,  even  motherhood  and  do 
mestic  life,  over  into  the  same  hit-or-miss,  off- 
again-on-again-gone-again  pabulum.  And  where 
we're  all  going  to  bring  up,  the  good  God  in  His 
infinite  wisdom  only  knows.  Now  you  know  what 
I  mean  when  I  say  I've  got  no  use  for  your  claim  a 
moment  ago  that  I'm  expected  to  carry  my  burdens 
and  win  my  battle  and  shield  and  protect  you  women 
when  at  the  same  time  you're  scrambling  away  as 
fast  as  you  can  from  filling  the  function  you're  in 
tended  by  nature  to  fill  in  the  heart  of  a  man  and 
the  life  of  his  family.  Oh,  hell,  Mibb,  I'm  sick  of 
it;  sick  unto  death.  I'll  take  your  society  in  the 
way  I've  taken  it  the  last  two  years,  —  for  mental 
diversion.  But  soul  diversion  and  satisfaction,  and 
inspiration  and  that  heart-hunger  for  the  thing  I 
call  maternity,  that's  another  thing,  Mibb.  I 
don't  ever  expect  to  know  it,  and  I'm  sour  and  caustic 
about  it  inside  and  there's  about  as  much  chance 
of  ever  recovering  at  my  time  in  life  as  there  is  for 
the  cost  of  living  to  go  down.  And  that's  some 
chance !" 

"Dick!  Dick!  And  this,  this,  after  all,  is  the 
result  of  my  —  life  !" 

"It  looks  as  if  it  were,  Mibb.     Kind  of  barren 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  319 

and  lonely  and  unpleasant  to  look  forward  to,  isn't 
it?"  He  recovered  his  old  self  with  a  sigh.  "Just 
think  of  me  in  those  times ;  we're  a  pair  of  domestic 
cripples.  Let  it  go  at  that." 

"Stolen  sweets  —  bitter  almonds,"  muttered  the 
woman.  "A  man  can  be  lonely  and  forget;  but  a 
lonely  woman  is  the  loneliest  creature  on  God's 
footstool." 

"Hell!  Let's  forget  it,  Mibb.  I'm  going  to 
order  a  drink  ! " 

Which  he  did. 

Over  in  the  corner  an  orchestra  began  jazzy  music 
for  the  theater  crowd  which  was  coming  in. 


CHAPTER  III 

IN  WHICH  HERB  TRUMAN  COMES  BACK,  STAYS  FOR 
BUT  A  LITTLE  WHILE  AND  THEN  GOES  His  WAY 
ALSO  AROUND  THE  BEND  IN  THE  ROAD  BY  THE 
SUMACHS. 

IF  Tom's  decision  to  pass  up  the  ministry  for  a 
newspaperman's  career  was  another  great  dis 
appointment  in  his  mother's  life,  Mary  never  made 
any  fuss  about  it.  If  she  had  ever  dreamed  of  a 
time  when  she  would  look  up  into  a  pulpit  and  see 
her  son  there,  preaching  the  message  of  the  good 
God  to  a  world  of  sin-sick  and  heart-hungry  men  and 
women,  and  realized  like  many  other  dreams  of 
hers  that  it  would  never  materialize,  she  buried  that 
also  in  her  poor  tired  mother-heart  and  went  on 
working  to  educate  the  rest  of  the  boys. 

Tom  Purse  was  a  good  boy.  He  was  too  good  for 
the  Boston  Chronicle  office !  He  had  been  on  the 
Hub  paper  a  year  and  seven  months,  sending  what 
money  he  could  back  to  his  mother,  when  word 
came  that  opportunity  had  opened  for  him  to  go 
down  to  New  York.  He  accepted  the  place  and 
then  for  a  time  we  lost  track  of  him.  Next  we 
heard  he  was  married  ! 

The  other  boys  were  coming  along  now.  Fred 
had  taken  an  agricultural  course  at  Amherst  and 
in  the  summer  he  used  the  poor  little  hillside  farm 
to  try  out  his  experiments.  Then  he  returned  to 
college  each  fall  and  left  the  hired  man  to  reap  the 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  321 

harvest.  And  many  were  the  phenomenal  turnips 
or  apples  or  melons  that  Mary  brought  us  to  the 
office  with  a  pathetic  pride  on  her  plain  features,  — 
features  where  now  all  traces  of  beauty  and  girlhood 
had  faded,  leaving  her  a  plain  old  woman  with  hair 
rapidly  growing  white.  Then,  after  graduation,  the 
next  we  heard  he  had  taken  a  chair  in  an  agricul 
tural  college  out  in  Ohio. 

For  some  time  Teddy  worked  for  us,  carrying 
papers  and  washing  forms  and  doing  odd  jobs.  But 
Teddy's  mind  worked  in  mechanical  grooves.  He 
nearly  killed  himself  trying  out  a  home-made  flying 
machine.  And  if  we  were  to  hesitate  and  in  a 
weak  moment  yield  to  the  wishes  of  Sam  Hod, 
about  the  biggest  incident  of  drama  we  could  glean 
from  those  years  "when  nothin'  didn't  happen" 
was  the  time  that  he  constructed  an  automobile 
that  got  away  from  him  at  the  top  of  Maple  Street 
hill,  careened  wildly  down  into  Main  Street  and 
went  bang  into  the  window  of  Ben  Williams'  cloth 
ing  store.  The  window  was  plate  glass,  and  Mary 
and  Teddy  had  to  pay  for  it.  He  left  school  in 
the  second  year  of  a  technical  course  to  go  with  a 
firm  of  engineers  out  in  Chicago  who  wanted  young 
men  badly  in  the  prosperous  back-fire  that  resulted 
from  the  1907  panic.  Last  we  heard  of  Ted,  he 
was  on  a  big  bridge  job  somewhere  in  western 
Pennsylvania. 

Dick  stayed  around  Paris  until  he  was  nineteen. 
But  he  was  the  business  man  and  Yankee  trader  of 
the  family.  He  tended  store  for  Alec  Potherton, 
our  local  shoeman,  and  stuck  to  college  afterward 
simply  because  he  thought  it  would  equip  him  to 
do  a  bigger  business.  He  graduated  with  the  help 
of  his  brothers  —  and  mother  —  and  then  took  a 


322  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

place  with  a  firm  of  wholesale  shoe  men  in  Lynn  and 
Brockton.  He  used  practically  his  whole  salary 
the  first  two  years  in  getting  his  younger  brothers, 
George  and  Dexter,  through  school.  George  plowed 
through  law  school,  stayed  for  a  time  with  a  firm  of 
Boston  attorneys,  and  then  went  under  his  own  sail. 
The  last  we  heard  of  him,  he  was  married,  so  for  a 
lawyer  he  must  have  prospered. 

Dexter  was  the  last  to  leave,  and  the  day  he  set 
out  for  Pittsburg,  there  wasn't  a  more  pitiful  sight 
in  Paris  County  than  "Aunt  Mary."  For  that 
was  the  name  the  town  gave  her,  —  in  all  kindness. 

She  laid  her  frail  old  hand  down  quietly  on  the 
case  and  said  in  a  voice  trembling  with  emotion : 

"  If  only  one  of  my  boys  had  turned  out  a  preacher  ! 
But  not  a  one  did!  Not  —  a  —  one!" 

That  was  the  nearest  to  a  complaint  we  ever 
heard  her  make. 

They  must  have  been  lonesome  days  for  her, 
after  Dexter  went.  Old  faces  must  have  floated  at 
times  in  the  space  over  her  type  cases;  old  voices 
called  across  the  years.  On  gray  days  it  must 
have  come  to  her  that  all  she  had  to  do  was  walk 
around  the  type  rack  and  find  Jack  at  his  old  place 
over  the  imposing  stones,  or  Daddy  Joe  over  in 
the  ad.  alley,  or  Lawrence  Briggs  rolling  his  glass 
eye  around  the  stove  clandestinely  to  the  terror  of 
Annie  Seavers  and  the  other  girl.  But  they  were 
all  gone.  Jack  and  all  of  them  —  excepting  Mr. 
Nimrod  Briggs  and  Sam  Hod  and  herself  —  and  the 
scribe  with  the  grimy  fingers  whose  pen  travels 
slowly  now  across  this  page. 

And  then  came  the  day  when  Mary  dumped  her 
final  stick  and  went  out  to  the  poor  Purse  Place  and 
never  came  back. 


THE   GREATER  GLORY  323 

It  was  the  day  when  Herb  Truman  showed  up 
in  the  village. 

For  Herbert  Truman  did  one  day  turn  up  again 
in  Paris.  The  door  opened  one  summer's  morning, 
and  a  big-bodied,  loose-jointed,  rather  dilapidated 
individual  shuffled  into  the  office,  dressed  in  a  faded 
green  cutaway  coat  with  two  buttons  ridiculously 
high  in  the  back,  and  a  pair  of  gray  trousers  badly 
bagged  at  the  knees.  He  wore  a  derby  hat,  a  bosom 
shirt  without  a  collar  and  big  shoes  in  which  were 
slits  to  ease  his  corns.,  A  week's  growth  of  very 
white  stubble  was  on  an  over-pink  jowl  and  he  was 
given  to  wheezing. 

"Is  —  Jack  Purse  in ?  Does  he  work  here  now ? " 
asked  this  seedy  individual  of  Myrtle  Corey,  our 
little  Marguerite-Clark  proofreader. 

Myrtle  was  puzzled. 

"Jack  Purse!  There's  only  one  Purse  around 
here  and  that's  a  woman,  Aunt  Mary  Purse,  who's 
leaving  us  to-day.  I  don't  know  whether  her 
husband's  name  was  Jack  or  not." 

"I  been  away  for  quite  a  spell,"  apologized  the 
derelict.  "But  Mary  Purse  was  Jack  Purse's  wife. 
I  remember  that,  well  enough.  Is  Jack  workin' 
somewheres  else?" 

"Golly,"  exclaimed  Myrtle,  "he's  dead.  Been 
dead  ever  so  many  years ;  long  before  my  time  !" 

"Dead?"  The  man  repeated  it  in  a  cracked 
voice.  It  didn't  appear  that  he  quite  comprehended. 
There  was  an  awkward  pause. 

"Do  you  want  me  to  call  Aunt  Mary  ?" 

"Yes,  I'd  like  to  see  Mary  again !" 

Myrtle  went  out  into  the  back  room  but  came 
back  in  a  moment  alone. 

"The  foreman  says  Aunt  Mary  came  to  work  this 


324  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

morning  but  wasn't  feeling  well  and  went  home, 
about  an  hour  ago." 

"Went  home?" 

"Out  to  the  poor  Purse  Place  on  Cobb  Hill." 

"The  poor  Purse  place?  Did  they  used  to  call 
it  the  Wheeler  place  ?  " 

"I  believe  so." 

"I  think  I  been  there.  Maybe  I'll  go  out.  1 
come  back  here  to  see  the  Purses.  I  used  to  know 
'em  years  ago,"  he  said  whimsically,  somehow  child 
like. 

He  was  moving  toward  the  door  when  Sam  Hod 
came  in.  He  cast  a  curious  glance  at  the  visitor. 
Then  something  stirred  in  Sam's  memory. 

"Good  morning,"  he  declared.  "It  seems  to 
me  I  remember  your  face  but  I  can't  recall  your 
name  — 

"Truman's  my  name,  Herbert  Truman!  My 
folks  used  to  own  the  Truman  Carriage  Works 
years  ago." 

"Good  Lord  !"  cried  Sam  as  he  inventoried  again 
the  poor  derelict  on  the  sea  of  human  life. 

He  visited  with  us  the  balance  of  the  forenoon, 
and  we  learned  that  he  had  spent  much  of  the  inter 
vening  time  in  Missouri  and  Kansas.  He  kept 
making  constant  references  to  "my  son",  so  we 
inferred  that  he  had  been  married.  But  what  had 
become  of  the  wife  or  boy  we  couldn't  quite  make 
out,  nor  could  he  tell  a  very  connected  story. 

"Poor  old  Herb!"  declared  Sam,  passing  me  in 
the  back  room.  "Life  has  done  for  him.  As  the 
young  folks  say  nowadays,  he's  a  little  bit  off  his 
base." 

"I  think,"  said  Herb  finally  in  his  childish  voice, 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  325 

"that  J'll  go  out  and  call  on  a  few  folks"  and  he 
mentioned  several  names.  But  we  had  to  tell  him 
that  the  people  he  had  come  to  see,  with  the  excep 
tion  of  Mary  Purse,  were  all  moved  away,  scattered, 
or  dead. 

"There's  been  quite  a  lot  o'  changes,"  he  said 
philosophically.  "  Mibb  Henderson  ? — is  she  here  ?  " 

We  looked  at  him  and  wondered  if  he  realized 
he  had  once  been  married  to  Mabel  and  what  he 
had  done  to  her  one  night  in  the  far  western  city. 

"No,"  we  told  him.  "Harvey  Henderson  died, 
you  remember.  Mrs.  Henderson  went  off  with  her 
daughter  and  we  never  knew  what  became  of  her." 

"And  you  don't  know  where  she  is  now?" 

"No.     Not  the  slightest  idea." 

"I  think,"  he  said,  these  items  making  no  im 
pression  upon  him,  "I'll  go  out  and  visit  Mary 
Purse.  I  used  to  like  Mary  Purse.  She'll  be  glad 
to  see  me." 

We  brushed  him  off  and  knocked  the  dents  out. 
of  his  derby  hat,  and  Sam  sent  out  and  bought 
him  a  collar  and  tie  so  he  could  look  his  best  to  visit 
Mary.  He  submitted  calmly  to  the  dolling  up  and 
claimed  he  was  grateful  when  Sam  gave  him  two 
dollars.  Then  he  shuffled  out  of  the  office. 

It  must  have  taken  Herb  all  day  to  walk  that  six 
miles  because  it  was  almost  sunset  when  he  turned 
finally  into  the  Purse  yard. 

Aunt  Mary  was  sitting  on  the  side  porch,  just  as 
she  had  been  sitting  one  day  when  Herb  had  entered 
the  yard  to  tell  her  the  home  was  hers  no  longer.  She 
saw  the  big  flabby  hulk  with  the  faded  green  coat 
and  the  derby  hat  which  had  somehow  managed 
to  get  the  dents  back  into  its  crown  on  the  way 
out,  and  she  took  him  for  a  tramp  come  to  beg  food. 


326  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

He  approached  the  steps  and  stood  there  for  a 
moment,  looking  around  as  though  to  fix  something 
in  his  memory. 

"Why,"  he  said  in  simple  surprise,  "I  must  o' 
walked  out.  And  that  was  foolish.  I  oughter 
hitched  up  Monday- WashinV 

Mary  started.  Her  eyesight  was  failing  her 
after  the  long  years  setting  the  little  type  faces. 
She  came  down  one  step  and  peered  closer  into  his 
features. 

"Herbert!"   she  said  thickly. 

Something  in  her  face,  her  voice,  her  manner  of 
repeating  his  name,  did  the  business.  His  wander 
ing  thoughts  came  back.  He  recognized  her  in  that 
moment  and  he  recognized  himself,  and  he  looked 
down  at  himself  and  out  around  the  yard  as  though 
astonished  to  find  himself  there. 
!  "I  come  out  to  see  you,  Mary,"  he  said.  "It's 
a  long,  long  time  since  we  had  a  talk." 

He  sat  down  opposite  her  precisely  as  he  had 
seated  himself  one  summer's  day  in  the  years  before. 
And  the  past  all  rose  up  again  before  both  of  them. 

"Where  have  you  been  all  this  time,  Herbert?" 
she  asked  in  a  voice  mellow  with  sympathy. 

"Somewhere,  out  there!"  he  said  thickly,  with 
a  wave  of  his  frayed  arm  to  the  west.  "There's 
been  so  many  places.  I  can't  remember  them  all. 
Just  sort  o'  wandered  around,  Mary,  lookin'  for 
happiness.  Don't  press  me  about  it.  It's  you  I 
want  to  hear  about." 

And  she  told  him.  She  told  him  about  the  home 
on  Pleasant  Street  and  its  ending;  about  Jack's 
worries  and  struggles  and  heart  hopes  and  disap 
pointments.  She  told  him  too,  about  Jack's  passing 
and  the  years  she  had  spent  since  in  the  Telegraph 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  327 

office.  She  told  him  about  each  boy  and  where  he 
was  and  what  he  had  become  and  how  well  he  was 
doing.  And  through  it  all,  something  of  his  own 
old  personality  coming  back  through  the  hazes  of  an 
abused  mind  and  memory,  he  sat  there  and  never 
interrupted.  When  she  was  finished  with  the  story 
down  in  the  present,  it  was  a  different  Herbert 
than  the  one  who  had  left  our  office  who  said  : 

"And  ain't  it  terrible  lonesome  for  you,  livin' 
out  here  alone  in  this  Cobb  Hill  house  now  that 
Dexter's  gone  and  old  Mrs.  Morrow  is  dead?" 

Old  Aunt  Mary  shut  her  lips  tightly  to  keep 
back  the  emotion.  But  the  tears  would  not  stay 
leashed. 

"Yes,"  she  said  huskily,  "but  I  love  it.  I  lived 
here  as  a  girl  and  dreamed  dreams  of  the  future  here 
and  left  the  old  russet  apple-tree  that  now  is  only  a 
lightning  blasted  stump  down  in  the  orchard  here, 
to  go  to  Paris  and  take  up  my  life  work  there.  It 
was  here  that  I  buried  mother.  It  was  here  that 
I  came  with  Jack  and  our  family  of  six  little  boys. 
Life  was  full  of  many  beautiful  things  then.  And 
the  place  still  stands  for  them  now.  Jack's  coffin 
was  carried  out  this  door.  One  by  one  I  watched 
the  boys  go  away  to  college  and  later  out  of  my  life 
through  this  chip-cluttered  yard  and  down  the  road 
and  around  the  bend  where  the  sumachs  hid  them. 

"No,  Herbert,  I  couldn't  leave  it.  The  dear 
Father  knows  it's  lonely.  But  it  would  be  lonelier 
to  live  somewhere  else  now  without  the  memories. 
They  are  all  I've  got  now  • —  the  memories  —  but 
they're  sweet  memories." 

The  old  man  rubbed  his  face  and  seemed  startled 
to  find  the  stubble  upon  it.  He  made  as  though  to 
say  something  and  then  checked  himself.  For 


328  THE   GREATER  GLORY 

with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  peaceful  scene  in  the  valley 
below  them  Mary  was  going  on  : 

"The  place  is  filled  with  ghosts,  Herbert,  but  I 
am  not  afraid  of  the  ghosts.  There  is  the  ghost  of 
the  little  girl  who  played  around  here  and  down 
under  the  old  russet  apple-tree  and  the  stone  wall 
and  the  fence  by  the  woods  that  have  all  been  cut 
away.  There  is  the  ghost  of  my  mother  that  comes 
to  me  in  the  evenings  and  sits  with  me  by  the  open 
window  when  the  moon  is  high  and  the  frogs  are 
peeping.  Then  there  are  other  little  ghosts  - 
boys  that  once  called  me  mother  and  that  I  worked 
for  and  gave  my  life  for  —  and  who  are  somewhere 
out  in  the  world  now  doing  the  world's  work.  And 
yet  I  see  these  little  ghosts  again  often,  Herbert, 
toddling  through  the  rooms,  playing  about  the  old 
toy-scarred  furniture;  it  may  sound  eery  to  you, 
but  many  is  the  door  that  I  open  to  feel  the  presence 
therein  of  those  who  have  gone  far  off.  And  — I 
am  not  afraid." 

Herbert  was  now  quite  himself  again.  But  he  was 
a  broken-down  old  man. 

"Mary,"  he  said  in  his  queer  cracked  voice,  "I 
loved  you  once,  didn't  I  ?  You  know  that." 

"Yes,  Herbert  dear,  I  believe  you  did." 
>    "I  wish  it  was  so  that  we  could  —  we  could  — 
spend  our  last  few  years  —  together." 

She  covered  her  care-lined  features  with  her 
gnarled  red  hands  for  the  moment.  She  lifted 
them  again  with  a  wonderful  gentleness  upon  her 
face. 

"It  would  be  sacrilege,  Herbert,"  she  said. 
"Sacrilege  to  the  ghosts  —  the  memories  —  the 
ones  who  are  gone.  Not  now,  Herbert.  It  is  too 
late.  If  you  had  come  ten  years  ago  when  I  was 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  329 

struggling  to  raise  the  boys,  perhaps  the  drama  of 
our  lives  might  have  had  a  different  ending.  But  I 
am  an  old  woman  now,  Herbert.  I  feel  somehow 
that  my  work  is  almost  done.  When  Jack  died, 
the  minister  who  is  also  old  now  preached  a  beau 
tiful  sermon  about  loaning  our  loved  ones  to  eternity 
to  make  our  anticipation  of  death  out-balance  our 
fear  of  its  shadows.  I  know  now  what  the  minister 
meant." 

The  day  died  as  they  sat  there,  just  as  it  had 
died  one  springtime  years  and  years  before.  Robins 
called  far  across  the  valley  where  the  sun  shone 
in  long  slanting  beams  of  gold.  The  hush  of  New 
England  peace  was  upon  the  world  and  on  the  old 
Purse  place  and  upon  the  woman's  life. 

"I  guess  —  I'll  go  now,  Mary,"  Herbert  said 
clumsily  as  in  days  of  yore. 

"You'll  come  again  and  see  me,  Herbert.  That 
at  least  would  be  a  pleasant  thing  for  both  of  us." 

"Perhaps,  Mary,"  he  said.  He  started  to  go. 
Then  he  came  back.  "And  there  was  a  little  black 
mare  —  Mon  —  Mon  —  Monday- Washin',"  he  said. 
"What  ever  became  of  Monday- Washin '?" 

"She  died  of  colic  one  night  about  twelve  years 
ago,  Herbert.  But  she  had  a  good  home  to  the  last." 

"I'm  glad  of  that,"  he  said  with  much  of  his  old 
awkwardness.  "Thank  you,  Mary." 

"You'll  come  again  and  visit,  Herbert?" 

"Perhaps,  Mary.     Good-by." 

"Good-by,  Herbert." 

She  watched  him  shuffle  across  the  yard  and  out 
under  the  hoary  old  maples.  He  went  down  the 
road  and  then  he  also  vanished  where  so  much  in 
Mary's  life  had  vanished  —  around  the  bend  in  the 
road  by  the  sumachs. 


330  THE  GREATER  GLORY 

Around  the  bend  in  the  road  by  the  sumachs, 
indeed ! 

Poor  Herb !  He  went  around  the  bend  by  the 
sumachs  and  down  the  simple  country  road.  And 
somewhere  down  near  Simonds  woods  —  because 
of  the  mental  strain  which  the  visit  had  made  upon 
him,  because  of  the  reawakening  of  his  mind,  be 
cause,  perhaps,  of  the  old  associations  and  all  which 
they  suddenly  meant  to  him  again  —  something 
happened  in  poor  old  Herb's  head,  and  he  fell  in  the 
road  there  and  was  found  by  old  man  Dickinson, 
driving  out  from  the  village  later  that  night  with  the 
evening  mail. 

He  was  dead  by  the  time  that  old  man  Dickinson 
got  him  to  Doctor  Johnson's. 

All  that  night  and  the  next  day  he  lay  in  Blake 
Whipple's  Undertaking  Parlors  with  no  one  to 
mourn  for  him  excepting  a  few  poor  old  friends  who 
shortly  will  be  lying  in  Blake  Whipple's  parlors  them 
selves,  and  who  scarcely  recognized  in  him  the 
boy  of  the  Long  Ago  —  no  one  to  care  —  only  a 
frayed  handful  to  come  to  the  funeral. 

The  men  and  women  of  the  village  who  had  known 
him  in  the  old  days  took  up  a  purse  to  defray  the 
expenses  of  that  simple  service  and  he  was  laid  away 
beside  his  father  and  mother  on  the  hill,  —  with 
Jack  Purse  sleeping  through  the  years  a  few  graves 
away  under  the  briarbloom. 


CHAPTER  IV 

IN  WHICH  THE  LONG  LANE  OF  LIFE  TURNS  SUD 
DENLY  FOR  MARY  PURSE  THROUGH  GREEN  PAS 
TURES  AND  BESIDE  STILL  WATERS  AND  HER  CUP 
OF  LIFE'S  HAPPINESS  AND  REWARD  Is  FILLED  TO 
ITS  BRIM. 

THE  summer  and  autumn  passed.  Then  came  an 
awful  Vermont  winter  when  Sam  made  his  maiden 
sister  go  and  live  with  Aunt  Mary  Purse  to  see  that 
the  old  house  on  Cobb  Hill  saw  no  further  tragedy. 
Spring  came  in  again  with  its  weeks  of  alternate  slush 
and  mud  and  pneumonia  weather.  Then  one  day 
before  the  mud  was  entirely  dried  or  the  first  green 
shoots  began  poking  through  the  fragrant  sod, 
Sam  at  the  exchange  table  was  trying  to  think  up  a 
subject  for  an  editorial,  pawing  idly  amid  the  mass 
of  newspapers,  free  magazines,  political  claptrap 
and  press  material  which  would  later  find  its  way 
into  our  wastebasket.  His  hand  struck  a  long  heavy 
periodical  done  in  brown  paper.  When  he  drew 
it  forth  he  saw  it  was  addressed  in  a  man's  hand 
writing  and  that  it  bore  a  two-cent  stamp. 

Suddenly  the  editor's  feet  came  down  with  a 
startled  clump.  He  sat  bolt  upright,  holding  the 
open  magazine  in  his  hands.  Then  he  crossed  the 
floor,  uttered  an  exclamation  as  he  did  so  and  laid 
the  paper  down  on  my  desk. 

"Bill!"  he  cried,  laying  it  out  flat,  "look  at  the 
front  cover  and  tell  me  whose  picture  that  is  !" 


332  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

Know  him?  Of  course  I  knew  him.  Small 
need  to  read  the  name  beneath  the  picture. 

"Why,  it's  Mary's  boy,"  I  said,  and  the  book 
keeper  overheard  and  came  running. 

It  was  the  current  issue  of  a  New  York  trade 
paper  published  for  newspaper  men  that  Sam  had 
opened.  There  —  occupying  the  whole  of  the  front 
page  —  was  a  fine  half-tone  of  Aunt  Mary's  oldest 
boy,  —  a  strongfaced,  clean-cut,  fine-looking  man. 
He  had  just  been  promoted  to  a  position  as  leading 
editorial  writer  on  one  of  the  greatest  newspapers 
in  America. 

"Turn  to  page  seven,  Mr.  Hod  !"  begged  the  book 
keeper.  "See  what  its  got  to  say  inside  about  him." 

We  turned  to  the  indicated  page.  There,  as  we 
expected,  we  found  Tom  Purse's  biography,  —  Tom 
Purse  who  once  washed  the  forms  and  swept  out 
our  little  country  office.  Sure  enough  too,  our 
little  country  paper  was  given  full  credit  as  being 
his  kindergarten  of  journalism. 

But  that  was  not  all. 

The  United  States,  at  the  time,  was  apparently 
becoming  embroiled  in  diplomatic  difficulty  with 
Mexico.  Force  might  have  to  be  employed;  it 
might  mean  war.  The  article  went  on  to  add  that 
there  was  to  be  a  great  union  meeting  of  three  of  the 
biggest  New  York  churches  in  the  immense  Man 
hattan  Tabernacle  that  following  Sabbath  evening 
and  because  of  his  tremendous  editorial  position,  an 
invitation  had  been  extended  to  this  big  newspaper 
man  to  preach  the  sermon.  His  acceptance  had 
been  recorded.  His  text  was  to  be:  "Jesus  Christ, 
the  King  of  the  Nations." 

"His  mother  —  old  Aunt  Mary  —  ought  to  see 
this  paper,"  I  declared. 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  333 

"Bill,"  said  Sam  thickly,  "she  ought  to  see  the 
boy  himself,  risen  to  his  power  and  his  manhood. 
Don't  you  know  it  was  her  wish  all  along  —  a 
piteously  disappointed  wish  —  that  one  of  her  boys 
should  turn  out  a  preacher  ?  Bill,  Aunt  Mary  ought 
to  hear  Tom  Purse  address  that  massive  congregation." 

"And  I  wouldn't  mind  hearing  him  myself," 
I  replied  vehemently. 

There  was  silence  between  us  for  a  moment.  It 
was  the  little  bookkeeper  who  said : 

"Wouldn't  it  be  grand  if  Uncle  Bill  could  take 
Aunt  Mary  down  there  somehow,  telling  her  nothing 
about  it,  and  get  her  into  that  building  without 
ever  knowing  who  the  speaker  was  to  be,  and  surprise 
her  by  seeing  her  son  walk  out  and  address  that 
audience." 

Sam  Hod  suddenly  acted  like  a  boy. 

"Bill,"  he  cried,  "I've  got  an  idea !" 

"Yes?" 

"Let's  do  a  kindly  act ;  for  just  once  in  our  lives, 
let's  do  a  kindly  act !" 

"Considering  that  for  thirty-seven  years  we've 
been  robbing  widows  and  orphans,  firing  foundling 
asylums  and  kicking  the  crutches  out  from  under 
cripples,  let's  have  an  explanation." 

"I'm  for  giving  Mary  Purse  a  whale  of  a  blow 
out  at  the  Telegraph's  expense." 

"A  banquet?" 

"No,  you  fat-head!  A  trip  to  New  York  —  to 
hear  her  son  deliver  that  address  !  You  get  her  to 
do  it,  Bill.  Here's  where  Aunt  Mary,  for  the  first 
time  in  her  life,  is  going  to  be  introduced  to  some 
thing  beside  worry  and  trouble  and  heartache." 
He  took  a  quick  turn  up  and  down  the  office.  "Bill," 
he  declared,  "I  can't  go  myself  on  account  of 


334  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

Saunders  coming  down  to-morrow  on  the  annual 
paper  contract.  But  you  can  go,  Bill  —  you  can  go 
-  and  take  Aunt  Mary  —  and  the  paper  will  pay 
her  expenses.  Take  her  down  to  the  Big  City 
without  saying  one  word  to  her  of  her  boy's  promo 
tion  or  what  they've  asked  him  to  do.  Take  her 
down  and  for  once  let  the  poor,  starved,  lonesome 
old  soul  get  one  final  ray  of  sunshine  into  her  over 
worked  and  spent  and  exhausted  life." 

Agreed?  Of  course  we  agreed.  Acting  on  an 
impulse  that  was  strange  in  Sam  Hod,  the  editor 
flung  himself  into  his  chair,  felt  for  his  check  book 
and  wrote  a  good-sized  check. 

"Take  your  wife  into  it,  Bill.  Make  her  get 
Aunt  Mary  all  the  clothes  she  needs  that  her  boys 
may  have  forgotten  to  provide  for  her;  tell  her 
you're  going  to  New  York  on  a  business  trip  for  the 
paper  and  there's  a  chance  for  her  to  visit  her  boy 
and  his  wife  as  an  equal  surprise  to  them.  And 
we'll  charge  it  up  to  profit  and  loss  —  but  principally 
profit." 

It  took  two  days'  effort  on  the  part  of  my  wife 
and  myself  to  persuade  Aunt  Mary  to  accompany 
us  on  a  trip  to  New  York  and  incidentally  "look 
in"  on  her  son.  I  remember  the  first  time  I  went 
out  to  talk  with  her  about  it,  she  was  sitting  in  her 
rocker  in  the  side  room.  I  had  the  trade  magazine 
with  me,  but  we  had  carefully  clipped  out  the  note 
on  the  end  of  Tom's  biography,  telling  about  the 
address. 

"Mary,"  I  said,  "they've  printed  Tom's  picture 
in  a  New  York  paper." 

Her  wrinkled  hand  went  to  her  lips. 

"My  stars!"  she  cried  faintly.  "Has  he  got  in 
jail?" 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  335 

"No  such  bad  luck,  Mary.  Get  your  glasses 
and  read  this  piece.  And  then  Ann  and  I  have  got 
a  plan  for  a  good  time  to  propose  to  you." 

So  it  was  that  three  days  later  Aunt  Mary  and 
my  wife  and  I  were  being  whirled  through  lower 
Connecticut  in  the  chair  car  of  a  Pullman  —  the 
first  one  Mary  had  ever  experienced  —  and  that 
in  the  dusk  we  began  to  see  the  ten  million  lights  of 
upper  New  York  flash  out  in  the  twilight's  dreariness. 
Three  or  four  times  during  the  ride  Mary  had  choked 
up  and  wondered  whether  or  not  Tom's  wife  would 
be  glad  to  see  her,  coming  in  unannounced  in  this 
way.  But  we  reassured  her  and  said  that  surprise 
parties  were  always  happiest  and  studiously  kept 
newspapers  away  from  her  so  that  no  mention  of 
the  coming  meeting  might  reach  her. 

It  was  a  difficult  task  inventing  excuses  for  not 
going  immediately  on  our  arrival  to  Tom  Purse's 
residence  over  in  Brooklyn.  Finally  we  had  to  tell 
her  that  it  was  arranged  for  Tom  to  meet  us  that 
evening  at  the  close  of  a  big  meeting  in  the  Man 
hattan  Tabernacle  which  he  was  covering  for  his 
paper.  Which  was  the  truth  and  satisfied  her. 

When  we  reached  the  place  by  taxi  after  supper, 
the  place,  despite  its  world-famous  size,  was  crowded 
to  the  doors  with  people.  Old  Aunt  Mary  bore  up 
well  in  the  crowds ;  her  anticipation  of  what  was 
coming  afterward  was  pathetic.  We  fought  our 
way  up  four  flights  of  stairs  and  came  out  on  a 
great  gallery  with  the  whole  vast  sea  of  space  below 
us  thronged  with  chaotic  human  faces.  Three 
unoccupied  seats  were  obtained  down  by  the  rail 
in  the  center,  on  the  sheer  edge  of  the  dizzy  depths 
down  into  the  body  of  the  house. 

Just    before    the   great    organ    began    to    shake 


336  THE   GREATER  GLORY 

that  tremendous  edifice,  old  Aunt  Mary  leaned 
over. 

"Who's  goin'  to  be  the  preacher  to-night?"  she 
whispered. 

A  flood  of  emotion  went  over  us  that  nearly  swept 
us  over  the  rail.  Poor  Aunt  Mary !  If  she  only 
knew !  But  we  had  kept  the  secret  well ;  the  sur 
prise  would  be  overwhelming. 

"Wait  and  see,"  was  all  we  said. 

We  stole  two  or  three  glances  at  her  while  waiting 
for  those  services  to  begin.  Her  face  was  deep- 
lined  with  the  care  and  the  struggle  she  had  ex 
perienced.  Her  red  hands  that  had  set  so  many 
personals  for  our  little  local  paper  were  distorted  out 
of  shape  with  the  years  of  labor;  they  were  now 
covered  with  new  black  gloves.  But  she  was  gazing 
over  the  rail  with  the  entranced  delight  of  a  child. 

Time  passed  quickly.  We  had  come  in  late. 
The  biggest  pipe  organ  in  America  —  or  in  the  world 
—  began  to  rumble  and  fill  that  tremendous  void  with 
music. 

WTio  the  minister  was  who  read  the  scripture  or 
who  the  dignitary  who  made  the  prayer,  we  do  not 
know.  It  doesn't  matter.  Neither  did  the  leader 
of  the  music.  But  mightily  interested  indeed  were 
we  when  three  men  mounted  the  chancel  and  took 
seats  in  the  high-backed  chairs  behind  the  pulpit. 
For  in  the  center  of  them,  in  a  smooth,  sleek,  frock 
coat  which  fitted  his  stocky  and  somewhat  youthful 
figure  we  had  small  difficulty  in  recognizing  even 
from  that  height  Thomas  Purse  of  the  Paris  Tele 
graph  office  and  the  poor  Purse  Place. 

It  was  after  eight  o'clock  when  one  of  the  last 
three  arose  to  announce  the  speaker  for  the  evening. 

Aunt  Mary's  eyesight  had  not  been  keen  enough 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  337 

to  recognize  Tom  from  the  height  and  the  distance 
as  we  had  done.  So  she  suddenly  leaned  over. 

"What?"  she  demanded /in  a  hoarse  whisper. 
*'  What  did  he  say  the  speaker's  name  was  ?" 

"He  said,  Mary,"  I  told  her  in  a  voice  I  did  not 
recognize  as  my  own,  "he  said  the  speaker  of  the 
evening  was  —  Mr.  —  Thomas  —  Purse  !" 

"Why!  —  why  —  that's  the  name  of  my  boy!" 
she  gasped. 

"Mary,"  we  said,  almost  fearful  of  the  result, 
"that  is  —  your  —  boy  /" 

Old  Aunt  Mary  drew  back  and  for  one  long 
moment  became  rigid  as  though  turned  to  stone. 

"My  boy  —  my  boy  Tom!"  she  cried.  It 
was  heard  all  over  our  part  of  the  gallery.  People 
craned  their  heads  in  our  direction. 

"Yes,"  I  replied. 

"He's  —  speaking  —  here  —  to-night?  He's 
preachin'  ?  " 

"Yes,  Mary.  It  was  all  a  little  surprise  for  you. 
That's  why  we  brought  you  down.  Hush !  Tom, 
your  boy  Tom,  is  starting  his  address  ! " 

Her  boy ! 

Down  there  on  the  pinnacle,  facing  that  gigantic 
sea  of  human  faces,  with  the  vast  lights  overhead, 
the  vast  balconies  and  galleries  around,  the  great 
organ  at  his  back,  that  stocky,  well-dressed,  fine- 
faced  man  down  there  on  the  pinnacle  addressing 
this  vast  assemblage  of  people  in  strong,  sure, 
steady  statements  was  her  boy  ! 

Her  gnarled,  misshapen  old  hands,  made  only  to 
do  mother  work  and  to  hold  a  composing  stick, 
gripped  the  railing.  Her  care-furrowed  face  looked 
down  upon  him  transfixed.  Her  eyes  were  livid 
things. 


338  THE   GREATER  GLORY 

Her  boy ! 

Down  there  on  the  vast  pinnacle,  the  center  of 
that  great  throng,  the  focus  of  thousands  of  eyes  — 
was  Thomas  Purse  of  the  poor  Purse  Place,  and  all 
this  crowd  was  there  to  hear  him  preach,  —  to  hear 
her  boy  preach !  Down  there  was  Thomas  Purse, 
the  boy  and  the  man  who  had  fought  and  con 
quered  and  won.  Down  there  was  the  lad  that 
by  sheer  merit  and  brains  and  the  blood  of  his 
mother  that  was  in  him  had  pounded  his  way  up 
until  his  voice  and  his  pen  were  conceded  to  rank 
among  those  mightiest  in  the  land.  And  he  was 
her  boy  !  —  and  he  was  preaching  ! 

It  must  have  come  to  Aunt  Mary,  as  she  sat  there 
in  those  next  few  moments  of  pitiful  delirium,  in 
another  world,  rigid  and  transfixed,  what  all  those 
long  years  meant  in  the  office  of  the  little  Paris 
Daily  Telegraph.  Long  dreary  days  when  she  had 
looked  forward  into  a  cheerless  future  and  done  her 
task  only  one  hour  at  a  time  for  the  sake  of  the 
doing  and  because  of  her  mother-love  which 
prompted  the  endeavor;  quiet  evening  hours  when 
she  had  bent  over  a  crib  where  a  little  boy  cried,  and 
said:  "You  want  your  father,  little  lad;  and  oh, 
dear  God,  I  want  him,  too";  hours  when  she  had 
worked  into  the  dark  and  soundless  midnights  mend 
ing  tiny  little  jackets,  making  tiny  little  clothes,  sew 
ing  on  little  buttons,  —  while  her  tears  blended  with 
the  stitches  and  she  could  not  see  her  needle  for 
them;  memories  of  the  day  when  his  father  had 
died  and  she  had  accepted  her  lot  with  the  noble 
philosophy  that  "troubles  are  sent  us  to  be  over 
come"  and  "we'll  get  along  somehow,  I  guess", 
which  meant  she  would  shoulder  uncomplainingly 
the  double  burden ;  monotonous,  backbreaking 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  339 

months  and  years  when  she  had  worked  over  a 
grimy  type  case  for  the  sake  of  the  food  and  the 
clothes  and  the  taxes  and  the  meager  tuition  which 
the  resultant  money  could  provide;  days  of  agony, 
when  she  had  watched  the  boys  go  out  of  sight 
around  the  bend  in  the  road  by  the  sumachs ;  lonely 
days  when  she  had  wandered  through  the  rooms  of 
the  poor  Purse  place  and  fancied  she  saw  little 
ghosts  toddling  about  the  legs  of  toy-scarred  tables, 
-  verily,  indeed,  all  these  must  have  come  to  Aunt 
Mary  in  that  greatest  of  all  moments,  that  wonder 
ful,  heart-pausing  moment  when  she  looked  over  the 
edge  of  the  high  balcony  down  on  the  black,  stocky 
figure  who  was  of  the  world  and  the  world's  business, 
yet  was  placing  Jesus  the  Son  of  Mary,  the  Man  of 
Sorrows,  the  greatest  of  all  Statesmen,  Christ  the 
Master,  forward  as  the  great  pattern  on  whose  pre 
cepts  governments  of  men  must  be  built  to  weather 
the  vicissitudes  of  ages  and  of  peoples. 

Her  boy ! 

She  had  lain  with  her  body  wet  with  agony  and 
heard  his  first  wordless  cries  piercing  the  darkness 
of  his  new-born  nights.  She  it  had  been  who  felt 
for  him  in  that  darkness  and  gathered  him  to  her 
warm  mother-breast.  She  had  watched  over  him 
through  hours  of  feverish  childhood  slumber.  She 
had  mended  his  tattered  clothes  in  his  young  school 
days  ;  comforted  him  in  his  boyish  sorrows  ;  advised 
with  him  in  his  heartrending  high-school  love 
affairs ;  guided  him  as  best  she  knew  into  ways  that 
led  to  honor  and  uprightness,  —  as  it  was  given  her 
with  her  limited  advantages  to  know. 

He  had  finally  left  her,  —  as  is  the  law  of  life  and 
of  species  the  wide  world  over  through  all  ages  that 
have  ever  been  or  will  ever  come.  She  had  given 


340  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

the  best  that  was  in  her,  and  he  had  left  her  and 
gone  out  to  take  his  place  in  the  battle  of  life  among 
men.  But  this  was  the  glory  of  it :  that  he  had  not 
been  untrue  to  her  whom  he  had  left  in  boyish 
thoughtlessness  up  in  New  England's  bleak  hours 
of  twilight.  He  had  fought  a  man's-sized  fight  and 
won  his  recognition.  He  was  her  son !  And  we 
know  that  in  those  moments  when  she  watched 
him  down  before  those  thousands,  Aunt  Mary 
came  into  the  blessing  of  her  heritage  through  an 
emotion  that  is  known  by  no  other  save  the  mother- 
heart.  It  was  her  great  and  all-consuming,  all- 
alleviating,  all-recompensing  moment  of  power  and 
glory,  —  the  greater  glory,  —  the  greatest  glory,  of 
whose  width  and  breadth  and  depth  there  is  no 
telling. 

When  it  was  over  we  got  her  out  of  that  place 
somehow  and  down  those  cursed  flights  of  stairs. 
Out  in  the  street,  after  the  press  of  the  throng  and 
the  excitement,  the  body  that  had  given  so  much 
and  spent  so  much,  broke  beneath  the  strain.  She 
fainted.  In  a  taxi  we  took  her  hurriedly  to  her 
hotel  and  summoned  a  physician. 

Hours  afterward  the  man  of  medicine  called  me 
aside. 

"Has  this  woman  any  children  or  other  relatives  ?  " 
he  asked. 

We  told  him  that  she  had. 

"I  advise  you  to  call  them,"  he  said.  "Some 
how,  all  at  once,  her  system  has  given  out.  It's 
a  general  breakdown  and  collapse.  She  may  pull 
through  it ;  she  may  go  quietly  and  without  any 
pain.  Yes,  get  them  here.  Perhaps  they  will  help 
her.  It's  a  peculiar  case.  I  don't  understand  it." 


THE  GREATER  GLORY  341 

But  we  who  remembered  Mary  Purse  as  she  had 
come  to  work  for  us  in  the  long  ago,  we  who  re 
membered  the  love-match  with  poor  Jack  Purse, 
we  who  remembered  the  young  mother  with  the 
wistful  face  who  had  trundled  babies  past  the  Main 
Street  shop  windows,  we  who  remembered  the  one 
who  had  driven  her  husband  home  that  last  night 
from  Ezekial's  and  two  weeks  later  buried  him ;  we 
who  remembered  the  mother  in  whose  face  as  she 
took  up  her  cross  smilingly  Sam  had  seen  Jesus 
Christ,  and  who  had  watched  one  by  one  those  she 
loved  best  on  earth  go  down  the  road  and  become 
lost  to  view  by  the  sumachs  —  we  understood. 

Aunt  Mary  had  lived  to  realize  that  all  her  labors 
and  sacrifices  had  not  been  in  vain. 

She  had  known  the  greater  glory  —  the  greatest 
glory. 

And  now  she  wanted  to  go  and  tell  the  man  she 
had  lost  back  over  the  years. 


CHAPTER  V 

IN  WHICH  AT  LAST  WE  COME  TO  KNOW  WHAT  Is 
MEANT  BY  THE  GREATER  GLORY  WHICH  OFTEN 
COMES  TO  WOMANKIND  WHEN  THE  SUN  OF  LIFE 
Is  SETTING. 

A  DAY  and  a  half  later  the  Purse  boys  began 
arriving.  There  came  a  moment  that  evening  that 
I  can  never,  never  forget. 

On  the  rich  bed  lay  the  frail  body  of  a  broken- 
down  old  woman.  She  was  sallow  and  spent  and 
her  life  was  ebbing.  And  about  that  bed  stood  six 
stalwart,  full-grown,  manly  men,  —  strong  men, 
men  who  were  doing  the  work  of  the  world,  clean- 
cut,  well-born,  firm-jawed  fellows. 

First  there  was  Tom,  who  stood  at  the  head  of  the 
bed  and  held  his  mother's  hand.  Daily  through 
his  editorial  page  he  spoke  to  a  quarter  million  men 
and  women  and  impressed  great  truths  upon  them 
with  a  prestige  and  power  exerted  by  no  pulpit. 

Next  came  Fred,  who  occupied  a  chair  in  an 
agricultural  university.  He  taught  men  how  to 
grasp  the  great  forces  of  nature  provided  by  the 
Creator,  and  with  aid  from  them  bring  forth  scien 
tifically  the  food  wherewith  to  feed  the  race. 

Beside  him  was  Theodore,  the  man  who  wrestled 
with  other  forces  of  nature  and  subdued  them  and 
compelled  them  to  do  his  bidding.  He  spanned 
streams  for  human  commerce.  He  laid  the  rails 
that  brought  civilization  into  the  far  places.  He 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  343 

carried  to  success  great  irrigation  projects  so  that 
water  was  brought  to  arid  lands  and  the  desert 
through  his  hand  and  brain  was  made  to  blossom 
like  a  rose. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  bed  were  Richard  and 
George  and  Dexter.  Each  man  was  on  his  way 
toward  success.  But  most  of  all,  they  were  first 
of  all  men,  —  resourceful,  honest,  forceful  men, 
expending  their  lives  and  their  talents  for  the 
betterment  of  the  race. 

And  there  on  the  bed,  broken  and  frail  and 
worn-out  and  old,  lay  the  one  to  whom  they  owed 
their  being.  From  her  loins  they  had  sprung; 
from  her  travail  they  had  felt  that  first  sharp  sting 
of  life  in  their  nostrils,  by  her  ministrations  they 
had  been  nurtured  into  mature  life  until  they  stood 
-  the  completed  product  of  woman  and  the  Al 
mighty. 

She  was  only  a  poor  old  woman,  spent  and  worn 
and  almost  done  with  life.  But  she  was  not  a  failure. 
No  woman  who  raises  one  child  —  or  a  dozen  —  and 
spends  her  life  to  bring  other  lives  to  maturity  and 
into  the  image  of  the  Creator  —  no  such  woman  is  a 
failure,  regardless  how  humble  may  have  been  her 
lot  or  dark  and  cruel  the  pathway  she  has  trodden. 

At  length  the  boys  withdrew  into  Dexter's  bed 
room  across  the  hall.  In  silence,  with  looks  sheepish 
and  ashamed,  they  grouped  themselves  in  different 
attitudes  about  their  eldest  brother.  At  length  that 
eldest  brother  spoke.  His  voice  was  husky. 

"A  grateful  bunch  of  fat-heads  we  six  are,  aren't 
we?" 

"What  do  you  mean,  'grateful'?" 

"How  long  since  you  wrote  mother  last  or  sent 
her  any  money?" 


344  THE   GREATER  GLORY 

"A  couple  of  months,  I  guess." 

"A  couple  of  months !  Sufferin'  Moses !  Call 
yourself  a  son.  Bah  !" 

"How  long  since  you  did?" 

"Three  months,"  replied  Tom  honestly. 

"  Call  yourself  a  son  ?  "  mimicked  George. 

"No ;  a  skunk  ! "  said  the  eldest  son, equally  honest. 

In  his  slow,  thoughtful,  precise  way,  Frederick 
spoke  up. 

"I  guess  it  hasn't  been  that  we  think  any  less  of 
mother  or  were  ungrateful.  But  mother's  always 
appeared  so  self-reliant  and  self-supporting  and 
efficient  that  it's  never  come  home  to  us  hard  enough 
that  she  was  human  and  could  grow  old  and  get 
played  out.  I  don't  know  as  I  ever  gave  it  much 
thought." 

"To  say  nothing,"  added  George,  "of  being  so 
blooming  concentrated  in  making  good  at  our  jobs 
that  we  hadn't  much  time  to  give  to  associations 
of  the  past." 

Silence,  scowls,  much  drumming  on  table  tops 
with  finger  tips.  Richard  bit  the  tip  off  a  cigar 
savagely. 

"My  God,  fellows,"  cried  Tom,  "mother's  fifty- 
seven  ;  fifty-seven  only ;  and  she's  old  !  She  looks 
seventy.  We're  a  bunch  of  cads,  the  whole  kiboodle 
of  us.  Dammit!" 

The  brothers  took  the  censure  without  protest. 

"What's  her  life  been?"  demanded  Tom.  "She 
came  off  the  farm  and  married  dad.  And  they  were 
poorer  than  scrub  whites  and  had  to  furnish  their 
home  on  instalments.  She  had  this  holy-rolling 
bunch  of  roughnecks  'one  by  one  that  tied  her  down 
and  took  away  her  looks  and  her  womanhood  and 
made  her  old  even  before  dad  died.  And  then  she 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  345 

lost  him.  We  are  old  enough  now  to  realize  what 
she  faced,  the  morning  she  returned  to  her  place  in 
the  newspaper  office  to  fight  the  battle  of  life  for 
thoughtless  scum  like  ourselves.  And  think  of  the 
stunt  she's  put  over  since !  Boys,  does  it  strike 
you  that  this  is  the  first  time  to  our  knowledge  that 
mother's  been  to  New  York  in  her  life?" 

"Go  on  !  —  rub  it  in  !"  prompted  Ted. 

"Fellows,"  concluded  Tom  quickly  because  he 
could  not  go  on,  "it's  up  to  us  to  see  that  she  spends 
the  rest  of  her  days  in  joy-riding.  It's  up  to  us  to 
help  her  make  up  for  lost  time." 

"How?" 

"Here's  my  share  :  A  week  ago  the  paper  wanted 
to  send  me  to  Europe  to  get  a  line  on  international 
politics.  I  turned  it  down  because  Lily  couldn't 
leave  her  crippled  sister.  I  had  no  heart  to  go  alone. 
The  paper's  sending  Higgins.  But  here's  where 
Higgins  gets  a  disappointment.  I'm  going  to 
Europe  —  and  by  God,  mother's  going  with  me  !" 

"At  her  age?" 

"What  about  her  age?  She's  only  fifty-seven. 
All  mother  wants  is  a  resting  spell  —  and  a  chance  to 
come  back." 

"Go  in  and  tell  her  so,"  ordered  George.  "Maybe 
it'll  help  her  to  recover." 

Tom  left  the  room  to  talk  it  over  with  his  mother. 
As  he  closed  the  door  behind  him,  he  came  face  to 
face  with  a  strange  woman.  She  was  dressed  in  a 
long  heavy  coat  and  a  hat  of  gorgeous  red  plush. 
Her  features  were  burned  out  and  old,  her  eyes  tired. 
Something  ailed  her  lips ;  she  could  not  speak 
distinctly. 

"I'm  looking  for  two-fifty-seven,"  she  said. 

"What  do  you  want  with  two-fifty-seven?" 


346  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

"I  just  heard  a  story  up  in  Manhattan  Tabernacle 
that  Tom  Purse's  mother  was  in  the  crowd  there 
the  other  night  and  fainted.  A  policeman  told  me 
she  was  brought  here." 

"She  was.     But  you  can't  see  her." 

"But  I  must  see  her." 

"Who  are  you?" 

She  told  him,  but  the  name  made  little  or  no 
impression  on  him.  "I  knew  your  mother  when 
we  were  girls  up  in  Vermont  together.  We  were 
chums,  she  and  I,"  said  the  woman. 

"What  do  you  want  with  my  mother  just  now?" 

"I  want  to  visit  her.  I  want  to  tell  her  some- 
thin'." 

"You  can't  do  it;  she's  ill!"  said  the  son  de 
terminedly. 

"Badly  ill?" 

"Yes." 

"She's  —  liable  —  to  —  die  ?" 

"Yes." 

The  woman's  eyes  stared  at  him  blankly  for  a 
moment.  Her  crippled  lips  formed  a  small  round 
"  O."  "She  oughtn't  to  die  without  knowing." 

"Knowing  what?" 

"I  couldn't  explain  so  you'd  appreciate.  Listen! 
Will  she  live  through  the  night?" 

"We  — hope  — so!" 

The  woman  backed  away,  turned,  started  swiftly 
for  the  elevator.  "I'll  be  back!"  she  called.  "I 
must  go  to  my  apartment." 

Tom  went  in  to  his  mother. 

Half  an  hour  later  came  a  tap  at  the  door.  The 
nurse  answered  the  summons. 

"There's  a  woman  out  here  says  she  must  see 
you,  Mr.  Purse." 


347 

Tom  went  out.  The  woman  with  the  red  plush 
hat  was  there  again. 

"Is  she  any  better,  Mr.  Purse?" 

"A  bit  — yes." 

"But  I  can't  see  her?" 

"No." 

"If  she  wakes  up  and  recognizes  things,  will  you 
give  her  this  note?" 

"Perhaps.  It  depends  on  her  condition.  What's 
in  it?" 

"I  heard  your  speech.     It's  sort  of  a  surrender." 

"My  speech?" 

"No;  this  note." 

The  nurse  called  to  him.  "Your  mother's 
whispering  your  name,  Mr.  Purse.  You'd  better 
come." 

Tom  thrust  the  big  square  envelope  into  his 
pocket  where  it  crumpled  and  was  immediately 
forgotten. 

The  woman  in  the  red  plush  hat  avoided  the  ele 
vator.  She  went  slowly  down  the  stairs,  —  as  one 
who  had  been  cast  out. 

The  woman  in  the  red  plush  hat,  with  the  tired 
eyes,  walked  the  hard  pavements  in  the  cold  spring 
rain.  The  rain  in  the  country  is  sweet  and  sad. 
It  awakens  a  hundred  fragrant  odors  from  shrubs 
and  sod.  But  the  rain  in  the  city  is  raw  and  heart 
less  and  spatters  down  like  a  curse  and  a  scourge, 
a  reproof  from  the  Creator  that  the  cities  are  foul 
and  an  abomination  unto  Him. 

The  woman  walked  the  streets  of  the  city  beneath 
this  rain  that  was  slowly  bedraggling  the  hat  and  the 
iron-gray  hair.     At  length  she  came  to  an  eating  — 
and  drinking  —  place  that  she  knew  and  she  turned 


S48  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

inside.  And  as  she  turned  inside,  a  moth-eaten  little 
poodle  of  a  man  who  had  been  standing  in  a  near-by 
doorway,  recognized  her  and  trotted  after  to  over 
take  her.  He  went  inside  also  and  smirked  at  her. 
Half-apologetically,  he  fidgeted  himself  about  until 
she  noticed  him. 

"Hello,  Georgie !  You  following  me  'round 
again?  Come  on  in  and  have  something,  George. 
Come  and  keep  me  company  because  I  wish  I  was 
dead." 

It  was  just  what  the  little  poodle  of  a  man  had 
wildly  hoped  for.  Maybe  if  Mibb  imbibed  the 
appropriate  number  of  drinks  she  would  become 
generous  as  she  had  at  sundry  times  in  the  past, 
and  loan  him  five  so  he  could  go  back  and  get 
another  week's  bed  and  board. 

"Lost  yer  job,  Mibb?"  asked  the  threadbare 
little  man.  He  sat  opposite  her,  his  little  rounded 
shoulders  hunched  up,  his  thumbs  together  on  the 
table's  edge,  in  his  buttonhole  a  wilted,  ragged 
nosegay. 

"No;    something  worse  than  my  job,  George." 

"What  could  be  worse'n  your  job  to  lose,  Mibb?" 

"My  soul,  George,  my  soul,  my  soul !" 

He  looked  at  Mibb,  trying  to  get  his  cue.  Was 
she  facetious  or  already  intoxicated  or  was  she  in 
earnest?  He  concluded  she  was  indulging  in  grim 
jest. 

"And  when  did  you  lose  this  soul  o'  your'n, 
Mibb?" 

"Years  and  years  ago,  George.  Years  and  years 
ago  when  I  was  young  and  handsome." 

George  smirked. 

"You're  pretty  and  handsome  now,  Mibb."  Thus 
did  he  hope  to  wheedle  the  five. 


THE   GREATER  GLORY  S4» 

"Pretty  and  handsome  ?  Don't  be  an  ass,  George. 
I'm  not  in  the  mood  for  it  to-night." 

"If  you  ain't  pretty  and  handsome,  what  are  you  ?" 

"I'm  a  greasy,  burned  out,  old  woman  with  a  heart 
like  a  peanut  and  a  face  that  shows  plainly  enough 
she's  gone  the  pace  and  is  paying  the  price.  That's 
what  I  am  !  " 

"You're  a  woman  -    "  began  George. 

"I'm  not  a  woman  —  I'm  only  female.  Maybe 
I  showed  some  traces  of  being  a  woman  once.  May 
be  I  could  have  become  a  woman  if  I'd  had  a  better 
bringing  up  and  not  been  so  God-damned  selfish. 
But  I  bungled  the  job  of  life  and  I  see  it  now  and  I 
think  I'm  going  to  get  —  drunk.  If  you  don't 
want  to  miss  it,  sit  where  you  are,  George,  and 
watch  me  ossify  !  'v 

"But  Mabel,  my  dear  !" 

"Don't  'dear'  me!  You  want  something  out  of 
me.  Nobody  ever  dears  a  selfish  woman  unless  they 
want  favors.  There's  going  to  be  a  funeral  here, 
George.  I  know  a  woman  who's  goin'  to  bury  her 
sorrows  and  heartache  in  booze.  Hold  a  coffin  handle, 
George.  It  will  be  entertaining  !  " 

"But,  Mabel;  really,  you  mustn't,  you  know* 
You'll  lose  your  job  — 

"Lose  my  job!  And  what  o'  that?  What's  the 
loss  of  a  job  beside  the  things  I've  lost  ?  — " 

"What  have  you  lost,  especially,  Mabel  ?" 

"What  have  I  lost  —  especially?  Listen,  I'll 
tell  you  what  I've  lost  especially.  I've  lost  my  girl 
hood  and  my  future ;  I've  lost  the  regard  of  respect 
able  people  and  a  birthright  of  honor.  I've  lost  the 
love  of  one  of  the  finest  men  God  ever  made,  sort  of  a 
silly  grinning  fellow  but  with  a  heart  as  good  as  gold 
and  out  of  whom  I  could  have  made  a  man,  and  a 


350  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

husband  who'd  be  with  me  now  and  make  my  last 
days  happy.  I've  lost  a  fine  home  and  friends  and 
the  things  that  money  can't  buy,  and  I've  lost  a 
fortune  also.  I've  lost  baby  arms  around  my  neck 
and  damp  baby  kisses  on  my  lips.  I've  lost  the 
blessings  of  little  children  growing  up  around  me, 
George !  and  the  joy  of  caressing  their  bumps  and 
softening  their  tragedies  and  healing  their  bruises. 
I've  lost  —  God  !  —  what  haven't  I  lost !  —  I've 
lost  the  glory  of  reaching  times  that  I've  reached  now, 
to-night,  and  not  a  single  man  to  tower  over  my 
shoulder  and  call  me  —  mother  —  and  stand  around 
with  his  brothers  beside  my  bed  and  pray  to  God,  if 
there  is  one,  that  my  life  may  be  spared  for  the  sake 
of  what  I  mean  to  some  one.  That's  what  I've 
lost,  ee-specially,  George,  and  I  only  want  to  forget 
my  troubles  and  be  carried  back  in  fancy  to  my  girl 
hood  in  a  little  New  England  town  again  !" 

The  waiter  came  up.  Mibb  ordered  wine.  George 
raised  his  stubby  little  hands  to  protest.  But  a  bit 
hysterically  she  laughed  him  down. 

"And  why  have  I  lost  it,  George  —  why  have  I 
lost  all  those  things  ?  I'll  tell  you,  George.  Because 
I  was  too  damned  afraid  that  I'd  do  somethin'  for 
other  folks  that'd  interfere  with  my  blessed  happiness 
or  spoil  my  shape.  Because  I  was  brought  up  by  a 
hellion  that  should  have  been  covered  with  black 
blotches  from  a  harness  tug  for  teaching  me  that  a 
woman's  place  in  life  was  to  go  around  with  a  stuffed 
club  in  her  skirts  loaded  to  the  point  of  explosion 
because  some  man  might  be  treadin'  on  her  rights. 
By  God  !  Rights  !  All  the  rights  most  of  the  women 
nowadays  need  is  the  right  to  have  their  hearts  broken 
and  their  souls  all  mangled  and  cut  up  so's  they  can 
know  the  meaning  of  fellow  feeling  and  home  love  and 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  351 

sympathy.  Because  when  a  woman's  a  woman  first 
and  other  things  afterward,  George,  she  doesn't 
need  to  worry  none  about  her  rights.  She'll  get  her 
rights,  all  right,  without  hiring  any  halls  or  buying 
any  brass  bands  or  breaking  up  homes  or  going  out 
and  grabbing  a  man's  pay  envelope  !" 

The  waiter  came  with  the  drinks  and  Mibb  took 
three  at  once.  Promptly  she  became  still  more 
hysterical. 

"Look  at  me,  George!  You'd  never  think  I'd 
ever  have  been  a  famous  lady,  would  you,  George? 
You'd  never  think  I'd  come  from  a  sweet,  pure,  little 
town  up  in  the  hills  of  New  England  and  been  mar 
ried  to  a  good  man  with  money  enough  once  to  buy 
this  street  ?  You'd  never  think  I'd  had  a  home  with 
fourteen  rooms  and  three  baths  and  a  lawn  where  you 
could  hold  a  moving-picture  carnival  ?  Never  think 
I'd  been  to  Europe  four  times  and  spent  more  money 
on  jewelry  in  a  week  than  I'll  earn  now  for  the  rest 
of  my  life  ?  Never  think  all  those  things,  would  you, 
George?  I'm  a  beauty  now,  ain't  I  George?  I've 
a  face  like  a  pan  of  dough  and  a  shape  like  a  bundle 
of  iniquity !  I've  got  a  home  that  stinks  of  straw 
matting  and  slops,  and  jewelry  now  that  Woolworth 
lays  in  by  the  ton.  I've  got  all  the  happiness  out  of 
life  that  life  has  to  give,  excepting  the  happiness  that 
conies  from  sacrifice  and  repression  and  generosity. 
I've  been  thirty  years  carefully  avoiding  the  un 
pleasant  things  in  life  —  and  met  suddenly  the  brink 
of  the  precipice  that  yawns  down  into  the  chasms  of 
abandon ! " 

The  frayed  poodle  watched  her  furtively ;  he  began 
to  dismiss  thoughts  of  getting  that  five  with  Mibb 
in  such  a  state  and  momentarily  growing  worse. 

"It's  all  right  to  have  a  good  time  while  you're 


352  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

young,  George !  It's  smart  to  call  the  girls  who 
marry  for  love  and  settle  down  quietly  into  homes 
'slow',  and  laugh  at  them  for  being  content  to  struggle 
on  with  only  fifteen  a  week  in  the  man's  envelope. 
It's  quite  the  proper  thing  to  avoid  having  babies  and 
keeping  your  figure  and  follow  the  styles  and  live 
generally  on  the  upper  crust  while  others  are  growing 
careworn  and  anxious-eyed  with  the  struggle  and  the 
worry.  It's  all  right  —  for  a  time,  George !  But 
it's  all  a  mess  of  tinsel  and  mummery  and  a  bad  taste 
in  your  mouth,  the  morning  after,  George.  There's 
old  age  to  be  reckoned  with;  there's  time  to  be 
taken  into  consideration.  And  time  asks  its  pound 
of  flesh  and  the  years  find  your  pals  all  gone.  And 
the  nights  are  quiet  and  lonely,  George,  and  the 
days  drag  by  in  a  mockery.  Oh,  God !  God  !  God  ! 
I'd  give  more  for  one  racked,  twisted,  furrowed-faced, 
gnarled-fingered,  sock-darnin',  food-cookin',  hymn- 
singin'  old  woman  reachin'  the  Empty  Years  at  last 
but  with  her  brats  grown  up  around  her  into  strong 
men  and  gentle  women,  than  all  the  silver-slippered, 
low-necked,  fizzle-headed  sissies  you  can  find  from 
Grant's  Tomb  to  Bowlin'  Green  ! " 

"Don't,  Mibb.  You're  crossin'  your  drinks  bad, 
by  orderin'  that." 

"Let  me  alone,  George !  I  know  what  I'm  doin'. 
About  thirty  years  ago  to-night,  it  was,  I  made  a 
bet  with  Mary  Purse  that  I'd  beat  her  hands  down 
at  the  game  of  matrimony  when  each  of  us  were  fifty- 
seven.  I  made  that  bet,  George.  But  I've  lost  it. 
I've  had  my  fling,  George.  I've  had  my  'rights.' 
I've  been  entitled  to  live  my  own  life  in  my  own  way 
and  I've  done  it.  And  it's  gall  in  my  heart,  George, 
—  it's  wormwood  in  my  soul ! " 

Her  voice  had  become   high    and   wild.     People 


THE   GREATER  GLORY  353 

turned  and  stared.  George  saw  his  opportunity  was 
lost  and  slipped  away.  At  the  cashier's  desk  a  man 
summoned  a  burly  waiter. 

"That's  enough  of  that,  over  there  at  the  corner 
table.  This  is  a  respectable  place,  Zelf  !" 

"It's  a  down-and-outer  trying  to  tell  the  world  the 
sad  story  of  her  past  life." 

"Go  over  and  tell  her  to  take  a  walk." 

The  waiter  came  across  to  Mabel.  He  said  harsh 
things  to  her ;  he  made  it  all  too  plain  how  undesir 
able  was  her  patronage. 

"I  know,  I  know,"  she  said  brokenly,  wearily. 
And  her  hard,  lined,  worldly  face  was  wet  with  tears. 
"I've  got  a  little  money  left.  I'll  go  back  to  Paris 
to-night." 

The  waiter  scratched  his  head  when  she  had  gone 
out,  rather  unsteadily,  a  wandering,  lone,  ageing, 
broken,  pathetic  figure. 

"Now  what  did  she  mean  by  Paris,  to-night?" 
he  demanded.  "  She  ain't  no  Frencliie;  I'll  bet  my 
envelope  upon  it ! " 


CHAPTER  VI 

IN  WHICH  AN  ANGEL  HOVERS  AWHILE  OVER  EARTH 
AND  BEHOLDS  A  STRANGE  SIGHT  AND  SIGHS  AND 
THEN  GOES  ON  AGAIN  ABOUT  ITS  BUSINESS. 

BUT  there  were  many  weeks  before  she  came  back 
to  Paris. 

Mibb  Henderson  alighted  on  our  station  platform 
from  the  four  o'clock  train  which  had  brought  her 
up  the  valley.  She  had  made  the  trip  in  a  day-coach  : 
her  only  baggage  was  a  small  black  valise. 

No  one  recognized  her ;  few  indeed  there  are  among 
present-day  Parisians  who  have  lived  long  enough  in 
one  place,  in  this  one  town,  to  know  the  prodigals 
when  they  return.  Uncle  Joe  Fodder,  driving 
his  depot  hack,  knew.  Perhaps  for  that  reason  she 
avoided  him.  She  did  not  take  a  carriage  up  to  the 
business  section.  She  walked  up  slowly,  as  though  at 
last  there  were  no  need  for  hurry,  —  no  need  for 
hurry  ever  again.  She  had  no  place  to  reach.  She 
had  just  —  come  home. 

She  was  still  stylishly  dressed.  The  smart  hat 
concealed  the  iron-gray  hair.  The  modish  veil  with 
its  field  of  black  polka-dots  hid  the  telltale  wrinkles 
and  traces  of  cosmetics.  She  was  yet  a  well-built 
woman  and  indeed  would  pass  as  far  younger  than 
the  Paris  of  yesteryear  knew  her  to  be.  But  Mibb 
was  old ;  somehow  as  she  walked  up  Depot  Street  to 
Main  she  was  broken  and  burned  out  and  bowed. 
She  made  a  pathetic  figure  as  she  came  up  Depot 
Street  in  the  soft  afternoon  of  a  late  spring. 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  355 

When  she  got  up  to  Main  Street  she  stopped  fre 
quently  on  the  corners  as  though  undecided  where  to 
go  or  what  to  do.  Reaching  the  taxi  stand  in  front 
of  Joe  Farrell's  quick  lunch  and  finding  a  driver  whose 
face  was  strange,  she  suffered  him  to  put  her  bag  in 
his  machine  and  she  climbed  in  the  back  under  the 
auto  top  which  partly  hid  her  identity  from  those  who 
might  recognize  her.  A  few  years  before  there  would 
have  been  no  such  attempt  to  keep  her  visit  private. 
She  would  have  gone  up  Main  Street  as  Uncle  Joe 
Fodder  had  once  expressed  it,  "with  all  the  pomp 
and  importance  of  a  fat  wash-lady  in  the  back  seat 
of  a  new  Ford."  But  Mibb's  star  had  set  now. 
And  Mibb  knew  that  it  had  set.  All  she  wanted  was 
to  flee  away  to  a  quiet  place  somewhere  like  a  tired 
and  perhaps  wounded  animal ;  let  nature  heal  those 
wounds.  Yes,  Mibb  was  very  tired.  Pitiful  was  her 
soul's  yearning  for  Alsatia. 

"Where  to?"  asked  the  chauffeur. 

"Take  me  out  to  the  Purse  Place  on  Cobb  Hill." 

The  driver  started  his  engine  and  Mibb  went 
through  town  with  no  one  to  see ;  no  one  to  care. 

The  car  was  but  a  few  moments  covering  the 
ground  that  in  a  far-off  happier  year  had  seemed  an 
afternoon's  journey  to  reach.  How  small  and 
scrubby  the  little  town  was,  after  all ! 

It  turned  around  the  corner  by  the  bridge;  it 
climbed  the  long,  sandy  grade ;  the  raspberry  and 
blackberry  vines  brushed  its  dusty  sides  as  it  skirted 
the  road  along  the  stone  wall  banked  with  birches 
and  dwarf  willows  and  sumach,  and  hiding  the  poor 
Purse  Place  from  sight.  With  dexterous  twist  it 
headed  up  into  the  yard  with  its  short-cropped  grass, 
behind  the  old  stone  wall  where  the  sweep  had  once 
stood  but  banked  now  by  the  fragrant  lilacs  and 


356  THE  GREATER  GLORY 

shrubbery  of  the  wild  roses,  the  yard  where  there 
were  no  farm  implements  lying  around  and  where  a 
fence  rail  was  wedged  firmly  against  the  rusty  red 
doors  of  an  empty  barn. 

She  alighted  from  the  car.  It  waited  for  her  with 
its  engine  running.  She  went  up  the  two  brown  flag 
steps  and  knocked  on  the  panels. 

The  raps  of  her  knuckles  sounded  like  thumps 
on  a  coffin.  She  tried  the  split  and  shriven  door. 
It  was  locked. 

"I  guess  —  there's  no  one  home,"  she  faltered. 

No  one  home  indeed.     Poor  Mibb  ! 

"I  could  o'  told  you  that  in  the  first  place,"  replied 
the  driver.  "I  didn't  know  but  what  you'd  bought 
the  place,  or  somethin' ;  that's  why  I  didn't  say 
nuthin'." 

"Doesn't  Mrs.  Purse  live  here  any  longer?  She 
isn't  dead?" 

"Naw ;  she  held  an  auction  last  week  and  went  to 
live  with  Aunt  Julia  Farrington  down  in  the  village." 

Mibb  swayed  wearily  on  the  doorstep. 

"Take  my  bag  and  leave  it  at  the  Whitney  House. 
How  much  do  I  owe  you  ?  I'll  walk  back." 

She  paid  her  tariff.  The  car  backed  out  and 
headed  for  the  village.  When  the  soft  chuf-chuf-chuf 
of  its  engine  had  grown  fainter  and  fainter  until  it 
died  away  to  nothing,  she  was  alone  out  there  in 
front  of  the  abandoned  house  in  the  long  slanting 
hours  of  closing  day.  Somehow  she  felt  as  if  she  had 
been  abandoned  too,  like  the  old  place  brooding  now 
in  the  sinking  sun. 

After  a  while  she  walked  slowly  from  the  yard. 
Her  loneliness  seemed  greater  than  it  had  ever  seemed 
before,  —  not  to  find  Mary  Purse  in  the  old  Purse 
Place. 


THE   GREATER  GLORY  357 

She  started  slowly  down  the  hill.  Baker's  meadow 
over  the  way  that  used  to  be  the  finest  mowing  any 
where  around  Paris,  was  not  coming  up  virile  and  green. 
The  grass  was  red  and  thin  and  sickly  and  filled  with 
devil's  paintbrush.  The  old  Squire's  place  was  gone ; 
two  hoary  elm  trees,  green  with  scale,  stood  sentinel 
now  over  a  cellar  hole  and  heaps  of  senile  yellow 
brick  and  stumps  of  a  fireplace;  the  Squire's  house 
burned  down  in  the  winter  of  '97.  The  grove  of 
chestnut  trees  in  Cogswell's  pasture  had  been  cut 
down  these  many  years  and  likewise  had  the  big 
beechnut  tree  gone  from  the  eastern  end  of  the 
bridge.  And  the  bridge  itself  was  no  longer  the  pic 
turesque  covered  affair  of  thirty-odd  years  before.  It 
was  a  trim  business-like  affair  of  white  iron  thrown 
across  the  stream  in  nineteen  hundred  after  the  freshet 
of  the  previous  winter  had  made  the  old  one  dan 
gerous. 

"Oh,  it's  changed  so ;  it's  —  all  —  changed  —  so  ! 
If  it  wasn't  for  the  old  Purse  Place  and  the  hills,  I'd 
hardly  know  it  was  the  same,"  she  said. 

She  crossed  the  bridge  with  a  heavy  heart.  The 
location  at  the  eastern  end  of  Main  Street  where  once 
her  father's  house  had  stood  had  been  absorbed  for 
ten  years  by  the  increasing  areas  of  the  Process 
works. 

"Thank  God  that's  gone!"  she  whispered.  "I 
could  have  stood  most  anything  but  to  see  the  old 
place  again  as  it  used  to  be  when  I  was  happy  at 
home  with  Ma  and  the  boarders  ! " 

She  finally  reached  the  point  where  Pine  Street 
bisects  Main.  At  the  southern  end  of  Pine  Street 
there  is  a  little  slope  that  comes  out  overlooking 
the  river.  On  this  stretch  between  road  and  river  on 
the  southeast  corner  of  the  village,  there  is  a  little 


358  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

plot  of  grass-choked  land  we've  come  to  call  "the 
cemetery  on  the  hill." 

Something  turned  Mibb's  steps  that  way.  She 
had  nowhere  else  to  go.  Why  not  up  into  the  grave 
yard  where  lay  sleeping  the  loved  ones  of  other 
years  ? 

A  beautiful  afterglow  was  over  the  world  as  she 
entered  the  cemetery  and  moved  down  among  the 
graves.  Half -fearfully  she  searched  the  tomb 
stones,  yet  morbidly  hungry  for  what  they  might 
disclose. 

She  came  on  her  father's  and  mother's  grave  so 
suddenly  that  the  bold  inscriptions  of  the  familiar 
name  startled  her.  It  was  marked  by  a  small  white 
shaft  of  granite  with  the  one  word  "Henderson" 
upon  the  base.  On  one  side  was  a  headstone  with 
her  father's  name.  On  the  opposite  side  her 
mother's. 

"Poor  pa  and  ma,"  she  thought.  "Even  in  death 
something  had  to  divide  you,  didn't  it,  even  if  it's 
only  the  monument."  But  strange  to  say  she  did  not 
feel  so  badly  over  the  sight  of  those  graves  as  she  did 
over  those  friends  of  her  carefree  girlhood  who  had 
been  her  boon  companions.  And  when  this  realiza 
tion  came  to  her,  came  also  the  words  of  Dick 
Robinson  a  few  months  before,  about  her  mother's 
lack  of  maternity  which  had  been  partly  responsible 
for  the  woman  she  had  grown  to  be.  And  for  a 
moment  a  fierce  wild  hatred  filled  her. 

But  the  resentment  left  her  when  gazing  over  be 
hind  her  family  plot,  and  off  to  the  left,  she  saw  a  last 
year's  grave  with  a  brand  new  headstone  that  stuck 
out  among  the  lazy  sleepy  old  stones  like  a  mansion 
among  the  dwellings  of  paupers.  She  drew  near 
fearfully  and  read : 


THE  GREATER  GLORY      359 

HERBERT  PEASE  TRUMAN 

Beloved  Son  and  Husband 

Departed  this  Life 

In  the  Fifty-eighth 

Year  of  His  Age 

Beloved  son  and  husband !  Beloved  son  and 
husband ! 

"Gone,  gone,  they're  all  gone,  —  those  that  might 
have  cared  for  me,"  she  cried  softly  and  brokenly. 
"And  those  that  haven't  gone,  those  that  are  living, 
they  do  not  —  cannot  —  care  !  Oh  the  bitterness  of 
it!" 

Upon  the  grave  of  her  husband  chance  had  de 
posited  an  old  tin  can,  battered  and  rusty  and  pro 
fane.  With  a  choke  in  her  throat  Mibb  leaned 
tenderly  over.  She  lifted  it  away.  She  was  about 
to  cast  the  thing  of  desecration  from  her  when  she 
paused.  The  receptacle  was  half  filled  with  rain 
water. 

"Herbert !  Herbert !  Herbert !  I  killed  you  ;  I  know 
I  killed  you  !  I  killed  you  as  sure  as  though  I  had  run 
a  knife  in  your  heart.  But  I  am  sorry,  Herbert !  And 
if  I  could  go  back,  be  with  you  just  through  one 
evening  again,  I'd  take  you  into  my  starved  and 
lonely  and  foolish  soul  in  a  way  that  would  make 
you  a  man !  Beloved  husband  ?  Yes,  Herbert, 
yes!" 

She  crossed  over  to  the  near-by  stone  wall.  A 
clump  of  wild  roses  was  growing  there.  Carefully, 
tearfully,  she  gathered  a  handful  of  the  limp  sweet 
flowers,  and  carried  them  back.  Then  with  a  tender 
ness  she  had  never  employed  in  doing  any  other 
earthly  thing,  she  settled  the  offering  on  the  hus 
band's  grave. 


360  THE   GREATER  GLORY 

And  an  angel,  wafting  its  way  with  wings  as  soft 
as  air,  over  that  acre  of  the  dead  on  that  peaceful 
Spring  twilight,  saw  the  thing  that  Mibb  Truman  did. 
There  came  a  soft  glow  in  the  angel's  heart  and  a  well 
of  tears  to  his  eyes.  For  he  knew  that  the  thing 
Mibb  did  was  from  a  broken  and  repentant  heart, 
with  no  one  around  to  see,  no  one  to  know,  because 
she  had  lived  and  lost  and  come  at  last  to  know  the 
fullness  of  love. 

One  lone  robin  came  with  shrill  chirps  out  of  the 
sunset  and  fluttered  for  a  moment  in  a  tall  elm  tree 
that  grew  just  over  the  spilled  stone  wall.  And  as 
she  stood  there  at  the  foot  of  her  cross,  the  robin 
broke  into  song. 

Far  away  down  in  the  next  mowing  another  bird 
answered. 

The  angel  winged  away  to  carry  a  report  to 
heaven,  leaving  the  two  robins  peacefully  singing 
their  vespers. 


CHAPTER 

A  SORT  OF  GRADUATION  CHAPTER  IN  WHICH  THE 
MEDAL  OF  HONOR  Is  AWARDED  AND  A  LONELY 
WOMAN'S  TEARS  CARRY  HER  NEAR  TO  GOD. 

DOUBTLESS  it  was  our  report  of  what  had  taken 
place  in  New  York  that  turned  Sam's  thoughts  back 
ward  that  sunset  as  he  stood  that  balmy  spring 
evening  by  his  open  window. 

"Thirty  years  ago  it  took  place,"  he  said.  "To 
think  of  it !  " 

A  hush  of  infinite  peace  hung  over  our  valley.  The 
screaming  color  of  the  west  that  set  a  thousand 
western  windows  aflame,  was  gradually  softening. 
It  was  Wanderlust  time,  that  period  of  the  year 
when  the  grass  has  come  green  again  and  the  faint 
odor  of  damp  lilacs  births  sensations  in  the  heart  of  a 
man  that  are  sweet  and  wild  and  sad. 

"I  haven't  been  up  there  in  ten  years,"  he  said. 
"I'm  going  to  walk  up  to  the  old  cabin  to-night  and 
see  what's  left." 

In  the  cool  of  the  evening  the  editor  whose  temples 
were  now  gray,  wended  his  steps  out  School  Street 
and  along  by  the  gas  works  ;  beyond  the  gas  works  to 
the  county  farm;  beyond  the  county  farm  to  the 
East  Wickford  road ;  along  the  East  Wickford  road ; 
to  the  turning-off  place  up  into  Gold-Piece  Blaisdell's 
Glen. 

As  he  walked  he  could  not  avoid  the  memory  of 


362  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

how  he  had  taken  that  pathway  in  other  years,  nor 
those  who  walked  with  him  who  had  gone. 

A  thousand  country  scents  of  sweet-fern  and  briar 
bloom  and  blossoming  laurel,  of  blackberry  vine  and 
checkerberry  and  wild  apple,  assailed  his  senses  as 
he  walked  along.  And  the  odors  which  he  had  for 
gotten  to  notice  since  he  became  a  man,  with  the 
cares  and  responsibilities  and  problems  of  a  man, 
brought  back  to  him  now  old  voices  and  old  faces, 
old  trysts  and  old  happinesses.  For  a  moment  he 
almost  turned  back,  so  badly  did  the  pain  of  memory 
hurt  him.  But  he  was  so  near  now  that  it  was 
foolish  to  turn  back.  Through  the  raspberry  vine 
that  scratched  his  trousers  and  the  milkweed  that 
left  lint  upon  him,  through  the  grasses  that  were 
damp  and  wetted  his  shoes,  through  the  little  swarms 
of  evening  insects  that  lifted  and  fell  in  the  evening 
air,  he  went  forward. 

"The  brush  has  grown  up  high,"  he  said.  "The 
path  is  almost  gone." 

•     The  Glen  was  darkened  when  at  last  he  left  the  tall 
•  -.rank  grass  and  undergrowth  and  saw  before  him  the 
ghostly  outlines  of  the  cabin. 

"It's  not  fallen  in  yet,"  he  observed.  "But  how 
hoary  and  grizzled  everything  seems." 

He  surveyed  the  dilapidated  old  cabin  for  a  long 
^time  before  venturing  near.  It  had  been  a  well- 
built  cabin.  The  hemlock  logs  had  stood  the  frosts 
of  winter  and  the  rains  of  summer.  The  roof  was 
fallen  in  at  a  corner ;  the  windows  were  gone.  Half 
the  chimney  had  been  carried  down  and  the  door 
hung  by  a  rusty  hinge.  Everywhere  were  the  marks 
of  the  sharp  teeth  of  the  hedgehogs.  But  still  it  was 
the  same  old  structure  around  whose  fireplace  those 
companions  had  gathered  after  that  tired  day  back 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  363 

over  the  years.  And  a  choke  came  in  the  editor's 
throat  and  a  nameless  hunger  grew  deep  and  man 
gling  in  his  heart. 

Then  as  he  stood  there  looking  at  it,  he  saw  a  ghost ! 
The  ghost  of  Mibb  Henderson  stepped  from  that 
doorway,  not  the  Mibb  of  that  far-away  holiday  — 
but  a  Mibb  whose  face  was  furrowed  with  sorrow, 
whose  hair  was  iron  gray. 

He  wanted  to  run.  He  wanted  to  cry  out.  But 
he  stood  rooted  to  the  spot  in  terror. 

And  the  ghost  of  Mibb  Henderson  spoke  to  him. 

"Sam,"  it  cried,  "Sam  Hod!  Oh,  Gawd!  Is  it 
you,  Sam  ?  Is  it  you  ?" 

"Yes,  —  it's  me,  Mibb,"  he  replied  in  a  voice  he 
did  not  recognize  as  his. 

"Oh,  Sam,  I'm  glad  you've  come;  I  couldn't  go 
back  alone.  I'd  have  given  out  along  the  way." 

And  Sam  saw  it  was  not  Mibb's  ghost.  It  was 
Mibb  Henderson  herself  and  she  was  just  a  broken- 
down,  sorrow-laden,  repentant  and  suffering  old 
woman,  —  suffering  with  memories  as  he  was  suf 
fering. 

"Why  did  you  come  up  here,  Mibb?"  he  asked. 

"  I  had  to  come,  Sam.     I  had  to  come." 

"So  did  I,"  he  said. 

After  a  time  he  found  himself  in  the  cabin  with 
her. 

"Let's  light  a  fire,  Mibb,"  he  said.  "Let's  light 
a  fire  from  the  rubbish  and  see  how  the  old  place 
looks." 

Deer  hunters  who  had  probably  occupied  the  place 
the  season  before  had  left  ample  wood  piled  beside 
the  fireplace.  There  were  old  papers  scattered  about. 
It  was  the  work  of  a  moment  for  Sam  to  make  a  place 
in  the  cold  dead  ashes.  He  touched  a  match  to  the 


364  THE   GREATER  GLORY 

paper  under  the  wood  which  he  had  piled.  It  burned 
blue  at  first  and  then  blazed  up. 

A  few  minutes  after  the  cabin  was  warm  and  filled 
with  weird  and  rosy  light.  Silently  he  swung  a  box 
over,  and  Mibb,  gathering  her  noisy  silken  under 
skirts  about  her  ankles,  sat  down  upon  it.  He  found 
a  similar  box  for  himself.  He  poked  the  fire  once  or 
twice.  It  made  queer  shadows  of  the  two  on  the  wall 
behind;  queerer  shadows  of  the  cuts  and  jogs  and 
corners. 

"How  long  has  it  been,  Mibb;  thirty  years 
ago?" 

"Thirty  years  ago,"  she  said  in  a  whisper ;  "thirty 
years  ago  to-night." 

"To-night!" 

She  looked  at  him  in  sad  surprise. 

"Surely  to-night,"  she  confirmed.  "Why,  that's 
why  I  came  !  Didn't  you  ?  " 

"I'd  forgotten  just  what  month  and  day  it  was, 
Mibb.  I  only  remember  it  was  in  the  late  spring. 
We  were  on  a  picnic  in  return  for  the  play  we  gave 
that  year  at  the  Opera  House  ! 

"They  sat  over  there  on  that  wall  settle,  in  the 
shadow,  afterward.  It's  there  yet !  I  can  see  them, 
Mibb  —  The  editor's  voice  wavered. 

"And  Harriet  is  dead  these  eleven  years  !  " 

"And  Dick  ?  The  last  I  heard  of  him  he  was  richer 
than  Croesus  and  lonelier  than  Job  in  his  affliction, 
living  down  in  Boston  -  Mabel  shut  her  lips 
suddenly  hard,  pitifully  hard. 

Silence  for  a  time.  The  fire  crackled  and  blaze  u 
and  drove  the  damp  from  the  musty  old  place.  Sa.m 
poked  it  with  his  crooked  stick  to  give  his  hanoL 
something  to  do. 

"And  I  sat  about  where  you're  sitting,"  Mibb 


THE   GREATER  GLORY  365 

went  on.  "I  was  on  the  floor  with  my  head  against 
Herb's  knees ! " 

More  silence ;  longer  silence  this  time. 

"I  saw  Dick  Robinson  the  other  night,"  declared 
the  woman.  "He  cleaned  up  a  million,  looks  like  a 
matinee  idol,  and  —  and  —  he's  a  woman-hater." 
She  laughed  a  trifle  bitterly. 

"Folks  around  here  said  you  were  going  to  marry 
him  a  while  ago,  Mibb." 

"I'm  not  worthy  of  him;  I'm  not  worthy  of  any 
man,  Sam.  That's  why  the  wedding  was  called  off." 

Sam  raised  his  heavy  brows  quickly  in  surprise. 
This  was  surely  a  different  Mibb  from  the  old  days,  a 
Mibb  who  would  declare  herself  unworthy  of  a  man, 
any  man.  But  he  said  nothing. 

"And  you,  Sam,  I  can  see  you  and  Alice  leaning 
against  the  masonry  there  on  the  left  corner.  Have 
you  ever  stopped  to  think,  Sam,  that  you  and  Alice 
were  the  only  two  out  of  all  that  crowd  who  married 
and  lived  happily  ever  since." 

"There  was  —  there  was  —  Jack  and  Mary  Purse," 
suggested  the  editor. 

"Don't  let's  talk  about  them,  Sam ;  it  hurts." 

After  a  time  Sam  said  : 

"Thirteen  young  folks,  typically  American  young 
folks,  on  a  soft  spring  night,  off  in  the  woods  after 
May  flowers.  They  group  around  it,  lovers  and 
sweethearts,  and  they  sing  old  love  songs  and  tell 
yarns  and  watch  the  pictures  in  the  flames. 

"And  the  talk  drifts  around  to  the  happiness  of  the 
moment,  of  the  threshold  of  life  where  they  all  stand, 
healthy  young  mortals,  rejoicing  in  their  youth  and 
strength  as  a  strong  man  to  run  a  race.  And 
laughingly  one  takes  a  gold  piece  from  his  pocket 
and  makes  a  proposition :  They  are  to  bury  the 


366  THE   GREATER  GLORY 

gold  piece  beneath  the  hearthstone,  miser-fashion. 
Through  the  years  of  their  life-endeavor  it  is  to  lie 
there.  And  when  thirty  years  have  flown,  if  they  be 
alive,  they  are  to  dig  that  coin  up  —  and  it  is  to  be 
medal  of  honor  for  the  one  who  has  made  his  life  the 
most  successful." 

Again  the  woman  shivered.  But  it  was  not  cold. 
The  editor  went  on  : 

"We  won't  go  through  the  careers  of  those  thirteen 
young  folks ;  we  know  them  too  well,  Mibb.  But 
thirty  years  have  flown,  six  of  those  boys  and 
girls  have  gone  to  their  graves.  Of  the  seven  living, 
two  have  amassed  fortunes  —  ' 

"Which  isn't  the  measure  of  success  at  all,  Sam." 

"You  thought  it  was  once,  Mibb." 

"I've  learned  differently,  Sam,"  she  replied 
quietly. 

"Then  you  think  they  can  be  eliminated  ?" 

"  They  can  be  eliminated,"  she  said  sadly. 

Sam  poked  the  fire  several  times. 

"Mibb,"  he  said  softly  at  length,  "tell  me,  to  whom 
does  the  medal  of  honor  belong  ?" 

She  turned  her  worn  countenance  to  him  then.  In 
a  soft,  soft  voice  she  said  : 

"I  think  we  know  —  to  whom  it  belongs,  Sam." 

The  editor  felt  in  his  pocket  for  a  cigar.  He 
lighted  it  in  an  ocean  of  time.  He  got  it  going 
comfortably.  He  took  it  from  his  mouth  and  studied 
its  ash. 

"I  think  we  do,"  he  said. 

"Shall  we  dig  it  up,  Mibb  ?"  he  asked. 

"I  don't  suppose  any  one  ever  will,  if  we  do  not." 

Sam  Hod  produced  his  penknife.  He  dug  away 
the  dirt  by  the  light  of  the  dying  flames. 

"It  is  here,  Mibb,"  he  said  reverently. 


THE  GREATER  GLORY  367 

Under  the  hearth  brick  was  found  the  cavity.  In 
the  cavity  lay  Dick  Robinson's  match-safe.  Thirty 
years  it  had  laid  in  that  box  that  was  eaten  with 
rust.  For  when  Sam  shook  it,  the  tinkle  came 
inside  it. 

"Sam!"  cried  the  woman  with  a  sob,  "oh,  Sam, 
we've  committed  a  sacrilege !" 

The  woman  broke  down  and  sobbed. 

They  went  home  under  the  soft  spring  moonlight. 
It  seemed  strange  to  think,  as  they  quitted  that  glen, 
that  the  same  moon  had  lighted  the  way  of  that 
happy,  carefree,  light  hearted  party  thirty  years 
before.  They  went  home  in  silence,  the  man  helping 
the  woman  over  the  difficult  places.  They  went  out 
of  the  Glen,  out  of  the  trysting  place  of  other, 
better  and  brighter  and  happier  days,  back  along  the 
country  road  and  the  brook  and  the  streets  into  town. 

"To  think,  Mibb,"  said  Sam  when  they  were 
almost  up  in  the  business  section  again,  "that  you 
and  I,  out  of  all  that  party,  should  be  the  ones  to  dig 
up  that  gold  piece." 

The  woman  did  not  reply.     Her  heart  was  too  full. 

"I'll  give  it  to  her,  to-night,  Sam,"  she  promised. 
"I'm  going  up  there,  now.  I've  got  to  go.  I've  got 
to  see  Mary.  Sam  —  Sam  —  my  heart  is  broken. 
And  I've  got  to  let  Mary  know  that  it's  broken." 

The  editor  understood. 

"Good  night,  Mibb,"  he  said.  "And  perhaps  it 
would  help  you  a  little  bit  to  know  that  I  don't  think 
half  as  much  ill  of  you,  after  being  up  there  in  that 
cabin  with  you,  as  I  might  have  thought  if  I  had  not 
seen  —  what  I  have." 

"Good  night,"  she  whispered. 

The  editor  went  into  his  office. 

The  woman  went  over  to  the  hotel  and  got  the  bag 


368  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

that  had  been  left  there.  Then  she  went  to  Aunt 
Julia  Farrington's  house  which  she  knew  so  well,  tit 
the  corner  of  Pine  and  Walnut  streets,  —  the  house 
that  looked  like  a  picture  out  of  yesterday  with  its 
iron  fences  and  old-fashioned  posy  beds  and  terra 
cotta  statue  in  the  yard. 

There  was  a  light  burning  in  the  hall  as  Mibb  went 
up.  She  pulled  the  old-fashioned  bell  and  waited. 

Aunt  Mary  Purse  herself  answered  that  bell.  She 
came  to  the  door  with  a  red-yarn  shawl  over  her  frail 
shoulders.  She  had  been  packing  for  the  epochal 
trip  abroad  on  the  coming  Thursday  with  her  son. 

"Mary,  Mary  Purse,  can  I  come  in?"  begged  the 
woman  outside  in  the  dark.  "It's  me,  Mary;  it's 
Mabel  Henderson." 

A  quarter-hour  later  they  sat  in  the  little  front 
parlor  of  the  Farrington  home,  the  parlor  with  its 
antique  melodeon  and  its  whatnot  filled  with  Aunt 
Julia's  daguerreotypes,  and  its  life-sized  picture  of 
Abraham  Lincoln  and  with  John  Farrington's  big 
cavalry  sword  standing  in  a  corner. 

Mary  Purse,  only  five  years  the  older  but  looking 
twenty,  sat  in  a  round-backed  horsehair  chair.  On 
the  floor  at  her  feet  with  her  poor,  addled,  weary 
head  on  the  older  woman's  lap,  sat  Mibb  Henderson, 
the  girl  who  would  "take  her  chances"  with  riches. 
And  she  was  sobbing  out  her  heart.  As  that  great 
emotion  possessed  her,  the  gnarled  beautiful  hands  of 
our  lady  compositor  of  years  in  the  Telegraph  office 
smoothed  her  hair  and  soothed  her  feverish  forehead. 

"Oh,  if  you  only  hated  me,  Mary,"  she  moaned, 
"if  you'd  only  fought  me,  damned  me,  killed  me,  if 
you'd  even  rebuked  me  one  little  bit,  it  would  have 
been  so  much  easier  to  bear  now.  But  you  took  it 


369 

sweetly  and  nobly  and  bore  it  somehow ;  and  you 
never  held  it  against  me.  You  never  let  it  show 
when  I  came  around  so  snippily,  throwing  your 
poverty  in  your  face;  taunting  you  with  the  load 
you  were  under ;  showing  how  base  and  contemptible 
I  was  and  how  low  I  had  fallen.  If  you'd  only 
done  it,  Mary,  if  you  only  had  !  " 

"I  couldn't,  Mibb,"  Aunt  Mary  said.  "I  knew 
you  couldn't  help  it.  You  didn't  do  it  to  be  mean ; 
you  were  thoughtless,  that's  all.  There's  lots  of 
thoughtless  folks  in  the  world,  Mibb.  We  want  to 
be  patient  with  'em  and  help  'em;  most  of  'em  see 
their  errors  in  time  and  so  it  all  comes  out  right  in  the 
end." 

Dumbly,  piteously  the  woman  of  the  world  who 
had  lost  her  moorings  at  last  clung  to  the  other  as  the 
only  Alsatia  to  which  to  bring  her  tired  soul.  And 
true  to  the  great  noble  woman  soul  and  the  mother- 
heart  that  was  in  her  and  the  saint  her  troubles  and 
struggles  had  made  her,  she  found  that  sister  ready 
and  willing  to  forgive  and  help  and  comfort  and  in 
spire  and  smooth  away  all  care .  Freely  the  Henderson 
woman's  tears  flowed,  and  by  those  tears  got  as  near 
to  God  as  it  was  possible  for  her  to  get  in  earthly  life. 

Aunt  Mary  forgave  her ;  forgave  her  for  the  cruel 
jests  and  stabbing  taunts ;  forgave  her  for  flaunting 
the  prostituted  finery  before  her  when  her  heart  was 
breaking  with  her  poverty  and  load ;  forgave  her  for 
all  of  these  and  took  her  in  and  fed  her  soul  with 
kindness  and  wrapped  her  in  her  great  big  mother- 
heart  of  eternal  sympathy,  —  which  is  the  blessed 
ness  of  womankind  above  all  other  divinity,  and  which 
is  the  high  road  to  peace. 

Verily  Aunt  Mary  Purse  deserved  the  gold  piece. 

We  think  so. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

A  GREAT  SHIP  STEALS  OUT  OF  A  HARBOR  AND  OVER 
THE  SKYLINE,  OUT  OF  THE  HOMELAND  AND  INTO 
THE  SOUL. 

FOR  thirty-five  years  now,  we  have  published  this 
little  local  paper.  Perhaps  we  may  be  spared  to  keep 
it  going  for  another  quarter-century;  such  things 
have  happened.  Or  perhaps  just  to-morrow,  as  we 
sit  writing  our  briefs  and  our  editorials,  our  four  and 
five-line  bits  of  pabulum  about  the  out-of-town  y'--i- 
tors  with  us,  the  sales  of  new  automobiles,  tne 
recoveries  from  the  sick  list,  who  has  a  newly  painted 
fence  and  who  drove  into  town  yesterday  with  a  load 
of  potatoes  —  anything  and  everything  which  will 
put  people's  names  in  print,  and  please  them  and 
make  them  buy  copies  so  we  can  sell  our  advertising 
space  —  perhaps  a  soft  hand  will  be  laid  on  our 
shoulders,  we  may  look  up  a  trifle  bewilderedly  to  see 
who  stands  there ;  and  we  may  behold  a  stranger,  — 
yet  a  stranger  who  knows  us  well,  who  has  come  to 
guide  us  to  the  land  of  our  missing  children,  who  shall 
stoop  over,  take  our  blue  pencil,  write  "Thirty" 
beneath  the  items  of  the  page  on  which  we  are  work 
ing,  and  bid  us  follow. 

When  that  time  comes  we  shall  not  be  afraid  to  go, 
we  say,  because  we  have  seen  God  in  the  faces  and 
souls  of  the  ordinary  men  and  women  about  us. 
Although  the  curriculum  of  our  earthly  education 
has  been  a  mystery  at  times  and  in  many  strange 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  371 

turnings  in  the  long  lane  of  living,  although  we  have 
grieved  often  at  the  pied  skein  we  have  made  of  our 
lives  because  we  have  not  been  given  to  see  the  reason 
for  the  apparent  snarl  and  tangle  of  it  all,  we  think 
how  weary  God  must  be  looking  down  on  the  world 
and  watching  the  iniquities  of  those  whose  education 
is  yet  incomplete,  and  we  are  cheered  and  at  peace. 
For  if  the  Almighty  has  the  patience  and  the 
optimism  to  keep  the  old  world  going  in  spite  of  the 
grievous  short-comings  of  many  folk  in  many  places, 
things  are  not  so  bad  as  they  seem  and  all  must  be 
well  with  most  of  us  in  the  end. 

True  to  his  agreement,  Tom  Purse  did  take  his 
mother  away  for  a  rest,  —  a  rest  that  meant  more 
than  a  cessation  of  bodily  labor.  It  was  a  rest  of  the 
soul  and  the  spirit  in  the  companionship  of  the  man- 
child  she  had  reared,  which  companionship  in  the 
struggle  of  life  thus  far  had  somehow  been  denied  her. 

When  she  had  recovered  and  was  strong  again,  it 
was  Fred  who  arranged  the  finances ;  the  sons  who 
had  been  only  human  in  forgetting  the  loneliness  of 
the  mother-heart  who  had  given  so  much  for  them, 
saw  her  start  off  with  Tom.  Though  in  years  it  was 
but  a  short  time  ago,  yet  it  was  in  those  far-off 
pleasant  ages  before  the  scourge  of  war  had  blighted 
the  world,  that  Tom  started  with  his  mother  on  her 
great  vacation  to  those  far-away  lands  that  only 
exist  for  most  New  England  mothers  in  books  or 
dreams. 

There  came  a  morning  when  Aunt  Mary  was  helped 
by  her  son  across  the  gangplank  of  a  great  steamship. 
The  last  good-bys  were  said  by  the  boys  who  were  all 
there  to  see  her  off.  The  smallest  details  had  been 
arranged.  Nothing  lay  ahead  but  the  unspoiled 


372  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

Wonderland  of  the  Old  World.  Nothing  lay  ahead 
to  the  woman  who  had  once  been  little  Mary  Wood 
and  married  a  poor  printer  for  love,  but  reward  for 
the  things  she  had  gone  through,  —  reward  and 
enjoyment. 

At  noon,  amid  indescribable  confusion,  the  board 
ing  of  the  last  luggage  and  freight  to  the  weird  songs 
of  the  stevedores,  the  blowing  of  many  whistles  and 
the  last  leave-takings,  the  hatches  were  finally  swung 
into  place,  the  gangplanks  hoisted  and  the  hawsers 
drawn  on  board.  Slowly  the  little  tugs  pulled  the 
great  lazy  monster  from  its  stall  in  the  city,  awoke 
her  from  her  two-weeks  slumber,  swung  her  about  and 
faced  her  toward  the  deep  blue  distance.  The  wharf, 
with  the  faces  of  those  Aunt  Mary  loved  and  was 
leaving  behind  just  for  a  little  time,  dwindled  to  an 
indistinct  strip  of  wooden  roofed  confusion.  The 
great  boat  floated  farther  and  farther  away  from  the 
strip  of  smiles  and  waving  handkerchiefs  and  tears. 

For  the  first  time  Aunt  Mary  saw  Dame  Liberty  on 
her  island  in  the  harbor,  —  that  iron  woman  holding 
her  torch  aloft  to  the  weak  and  oppressed  of  every 
nation.  The  tugs,  like  sturdy  irrelevant  office- 
seekers  looking  for  loot,  ploughed  to  and  fro,  in 
different  to  the  coming  adventures  of  the  great  levi 
athan  —  or  greater  than  the  great  leviathan,  the  hap 
piness  in  the  heart  of  one  woman  on  its  deck. 

Soon  all  that  could  be  seen  of  the  city  was  the  dis 
tant  overhanging  smoke  growing  fainter  and  fainter. 
The  arms  of  the  Atlantic  were  opening  wider  and 
wider.  America  —  and  home  —  were  only  a  mem 
ory.  But  what  of  that  ?  Was  she  not  going  to  Eu 
rope  —  to  Europe  !  —  with  the  big  son,  her  son,  who 
had  made  this  dream  reality  ? 

Ahead  of  her  were  seven  wonder  days,  —  days  of 


THE   GREATER  GLORY  373 

quiet  —  days  of  infinite  peace  —  days  of  rest  and 
diversion  and  a  laying  aside  at  last  of  life's  burdens. 
Seven  days,  indeed,  with  the  trailing,  furling  smoke, 
the  emerald  green  of  the  mountains  of  water,  the 
impromptu  rainbows,  the  gulls  that  knew  no  home 
by  the  ever-rocking  cradle  of  the  deep,  the  spray 
from  the  swells  and  the  foam  from  the  prow ;  seven 
days  with  the  swing  and  the  swish  through  the 
hours ;  seven  afternoons  to  sit  lazily  upon  the 
comfortable  chairs  of  the  deck  and  send  her  dream 
cargoes  off  homeward  into  the  blood-red  sunset  that 
was  setting  for  us  too,  at  the  same  time,  back  home 
in  New  England.  Seven  nights  for  the  engine  to 
sing  her  to  sleep  with  its  sobbing  and  the  melancholy 
double-strokes  of  the  bells  to  mark  off  the  great 
eternity  of  time  and  horizon,  when  the  distance 
slipped  away,  past  the  eye  and  into  the  soul,  and 
each  low-hung  sun  on  the  rim  of  the  world  created 
a  shadow-ship  that  kept  them  convoy  into  the 
mysterious  depths  of  the  night. 

She  stood  by  the  rail  of  the  gently  swaying  vessel 
in  the  late  evening.  And  Tom  came  and  stood  by 
her  side. 

"Havin'  a  good  time,  mother?"  he  asked  cheerily. 

But  she  could  not  reply. 

It  meant  something  to  her  —  this  "  Going  Abroad." 
She  had  indeed  paid  for  her  passage. 

"Mother,  I  was  just  going  through  my  black  suit 
to  have  the  boy  press  it  when  I  came  across  a  letter 
a  woman  gave  me  for  you  two  nights  after  you 
knuckled  under  and  we  thought  you  were  going  to 
leave  us.  She  wanted  to  see  you  but  we  wouldn't 
let  her  in.  She  went  off  and  returned  with  this 
envelope.  Maybe  you  ought  to  open  it.  It  might 
be  something  important." 


374  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

There  were  many  lights  on  deck.  Tom  led  his 
mother  to  her  steamer  chair  and  she  got  her  glasses. 
She  tore  open  the  envelope.  Two  papers  came  out. 
One  was  crumpled  and  wrinkled  with  long  keeping. 
The  other  was  a  blotchy  letter  but  recently  written. 
She  read  the  last  first. 

DEAR  MARY: 

I  heard  Thomas  Joshua  speak  at  the  Tabernacle 
to-night  and  some  of  the  things  he  said  hurt  me 
badly.  You  have  six  like  Tom.  I  haven't  even  one. 
It  ought  to  seem  unfair  but  it  isn't.  You  paid  the 
price  for  them.  I  refused.  It's  a  pretty  square 
world  after  all.  We  get  just  about  what  we 
deserve. 

I  may  not  see  you  again,  Mary.  But  for  the  sake 
of  my  soul  I  want  to  say  something  for  the  man  I 
sent  to  the  bad.  I  want  some  one  besides  me  to 
appreciate  him.  When  I  went  through  his  things 
after  he  disappeared  twenty  odd  years  ago,  I  found 
the  enclosure.  I  didn't  say  anything  about  it  at  the 
time.  Mean  and  dirty  like  I  was,  I  intended  to  keep 
it,  and  trot  it  out  to  lord  it  over  you  and  make  you 
feel  bad.  I  don't  send  it  in  that  spirit  now.  I  send 
it  for  a  square  deal  for  Herbert  —  some  sort  of  poor 
compensation. 

Good-by,  Mary  Purse.  I  won't  say  God  Bless  You 
for  that  is  superfluous.  He  has  done  that  already  and 
amply.  I  say,  pray  God  for  me,  —  a  lonely  woman. 
My  cup  of  sorrow  and  remorse  is  very  very  full. 

MABEL  HENDEBSON. 

Mary's  old  hand  trembled  a  bit  as  she  slowly 
lowered  the  letter.  Wonderingly,  she  picked  up  the 
enclosure  from  her  black-silk  lap. 

It  was  plainly  a  receipt  for  money  paid.  Across 
the  top  in  big  type  were  the  names  : 


THE   GREATER   GLORY  375 

PITS,   RULING,   DONOVAN  & 

WILEY,   Attorneys. 

Chicago,  El. 

And  on  the  face  of  the  receipt  was  the  information 

Received  of  Herbert  Truman,  Paris,  Vt.,  —  $6000 
for  transfer  to  Mrs.  John  Purse,  under  terms  and 
conditions  specified  in  correspondence,  Jan.  17th  to 
May  10th  inclusive,  purporting  to  come  from  estate 
of  late  Josiah  Wood,  Bankrupt.  Less  usual  commis 
sions. 

For  the  partnership, 

A.  V.  WILEY. 

The  import  of  the  document  dawned  upon  her. 
With  some  of  her  oldtime  vigor,  Mary  sprang  from 
the  chair.  She  went  to  the  railing.  She  stood  there 
with  her  eyes  turned  back  over  the  sea  toward  home. 

Herb  Truman  had  been  responsible  for  that 
legacy ! 

The  ship  swung  softly  from  side  to  side.  From 
down  on  the  surface  of  the  waters  came  the  ceaseless 
swash  of  the  spray.  Pedestrians  paced  the  deck. 
From  somewhere  far  up  forward  an  orchestra  was 
playing  dreamy  music. 

But  of  these  things  Mary  Purse  took  no  note. 

The  moon  came  up  after  a  time,  and  made  a  fantas 
tic  dreamy  place  of  the  infinite  wastes  of  water. 
Lovers  laughed  in  the  shadowed  nooks  and  corners. 
The  black  smoke  from  the  funnels  trailed  off  to  the 
distances  like  a  cloud  of  unleashed  black  phantoms. 

Her  thoughts  were  back  in  New  England  where  the 
peaceful  dream-time  of  the  summer  night  was  upon 


376  THE   GREATER   GLORY 

the  landscape  and  the  crickets  were  cheeping  down 
in  the  roots  of  the  ragged  lilacs. 

And  here,  with  her  lack-lustre  eyes  fixed  on 
unspeakable  solitude,  let  us  leave  her.  Let  us  leave 
her  and  go  back  to  our  labors  and  our  town  and  news 
paper  and  the  ordinary  t^wio-legged  men  and  women 
who  remain.  Let  us  bid  her  farewell  and  see  her  sail 
away  in  the  path  of  the  moonlight,  calling  "Bon 
Voyage"  to  her,  trusting  that  the  time  may  come  soon 
when  we  may  join  the  familiar  faces  and  hear  again 
the  familiar  voices  with  her  in  the  Great  Port  where 
storm-tossed  humanity  comes  safely  to  harbor  at 
last. 

For  some  day,  please  God,  it  shall  come  our  turn 
also  to  embark  upon  a  journey,  —  to  take  a  ship  and 
sail  away  for  the  Port  of  Missing  Faces.  Then  like 
Mary  Purse,  as  she  draws  softly  out  of  our  hearts  and 
out  of  our  story,  we  will  become  one  with  the  thou 
sands  of  souls  on  the  bosom  of  the  Infinite ;  we  too 
will  be  a  flash  of  phosphorus  washed  on  the  evening 
billows. 


THE    END. 


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